The Taming of Mr T
by unamuerte
Summary: What if Sweeney hadn't pushed Mrs Lovett in the oven? Could he and Mrs Lovett have the seaside life she'd always dreamed of? Or will the ghost of Lucy always get in the way? Finally Completed!
1. Gettin’ Rid of Loose Ends

_**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything Sweeney Todd related except the DVD and my imagined world in which Sweeney and co inhabit. _

_**A/N: **This is the first fanfic I've put up here, so go ahead, read and review please. I'm one of those people that criticism can't stop. Maybe a brick might =D._

**CHAPTER I: Getting' Rid of Loose Ends**

The dead man reached out with a feeble, bloodied hand to grasp her ankle. Mrs Lovett stifled a scream by biting her knuckle. It was fortunate she had the habit, biting her knuckles whenever she felt the need to scream. Or else Mr T would come running down demanding what the devil she was screaming for. It was something she'd done quite frequently when her Albert was alive. And that wouldn't do, oh no. She had a mess to clean up.

Mrs Lovett turned her attention back to the almost-corpse.

In two swift kicks the woman managed to disentangle her booted ankle from the dying man's hand. One more firm kick to the head silenced the rest of his death throe. Judge Turpin was _finally _no more. Although you'd think the throat-slitting would have done it, Mrs Lovett mused absently. Considering Mr T's artistic skills with his razors. She rewarded herself with a wry smile, but inside, her little heart beat rapidly at the thought of her almost discovery.

It had almost been curtains, thanks to that rotten Judge. For, unbeknownst to the dear master upstairs, Mrs Lovett (I doubt anyone except herself and her dear Albert ever knew her name) had a terrible secret. Not as terrible as her feeding human remains to her customers in the guise of meat pies (although Mrs Lovett wouldn't have considered it terrible, rather 'eminently practical') – but it was close. She had known, plotted, orchestrated - take your pick of the adjectives – that Sweeney Todd's (formerly Benjamin Barker) poor outcast wife was alive. Indeed, the very same old crazy woman who spouted warnings and Armageddon's to customers and passersby of Mrs Lovett's famous pie shop.

It wasn't Mrs Lovett's fault the silly little nit couldn't hold her head together for more than a day, without a man around. It certainly wasn't her fault the blonde sot had gone mad after her little adventure at the Judge's ball. The dim thing hadn't _deserved _Sweeney. Poor Mr Todd. If only the stupid woman had waited at least a year before losing her head, Mrs Lovett might have held a little respect. But the woman was weak. A silly blonde mop like that was as fidgety as a grasshopper, flighty as a bird.

And all the while, Mrs Lovett had been waiting, waiting her time out in the pie shop, waiting for her dear Albert to drop dead (although a little arsenic never hurt a man) - until Benjamin Barker returned. He had a fifteen year service in the Australian colony and Mrs Lovett waited, counting each year until almost as if by chance Mr T was drawn, inexorably into her pie shop. After all those years, he'd come, haunted and aged (and more than a little mad, though still handsome) where Mrs Lovett set about to repair all the damage Mrs Barker had done.

But if Mr T ever _knew _she knew the truth about his wife, well, Mrs Lovett trembled just _thinking _on it. She had seen of course, the bodies slide down and pile up in the furnace room, sent as if from the devil himself (though really from the trapdoor above Mr T's barber shop). She'd seen the blood spilling from the dead men's throats like slaughtered pigs (Mrs Lovett could think of no better analogy) – but the misguided woman couldn't conceive that Mr T would ever harm _her. _

He certainly was fond of his two 'friends', those twin silver blades that helped him with his work, stroking them and talking to them and what not. He might have his little violent outbursts now and then, in many ways Mrs Lovett thought, like a spoilt child. But she was sure as she was sure Benjamin Barker's wife was a fool that when it came to it, he would never bring himself to hurt his partner in crime.

So now she was looking down at what she had dreamed of all those years to come true, Mrs Barker's dead body lying on the floor. It was true, Nellie (for that was Mrs Lovett's first name) wasn't the least bit sorry for it. She savoured the blood-matted blonde hair and sad little (once flailing) limbs before setting swiftly to work.

Mrs Lovett dragged the dead weight, with no puns intended, towards the roaring furnace, left open earlier by Toby. It wasn't easy, mind you, lifting the sour thing on her own, but somehow Nellie managed to push the body head first into the shuddering flames. Mrs Lovett paused for a moment to watch her handiwork shrivel and blaze into that hellish coffin, until the face melted away and all trace of Benjamin Barker's first love vanished.

'Where is he?'

And then, footsteps coming down the stairs. A rough, grizzled voice interrupted her celebrating. Mrs Lovett spun round, hands on her corset.

'Who?' She cleverly masked the brief twinge of fear at being discovered by mopping her brow with the back of her gloved hand. Then, ever the competent actress, the woman turned her attentions to the bloody corpse lying beneath the trapdoor. 'Oh you mean the Judge? Gave me such a fright 'e did, droppin' down like that.'

Sweeney did not really _see _Mrs Lovett, (he himself was quite practiced at staring past her, or through her) or he might have noticed the unusual amount of sweat beading on her forehead. He saw only the pathetic piece of fat on the floor, its eyes still frozen in the moment of death, the moment of the realization that _he, _Sweeney Todd, had had the honour of the stealing from Turpin his last breath. Sweeney brushed past Mrs Lovett, bending down in the pool of blood to survey the jagged cuts across the dead man's throat, the admirable stab wounds in the neck and face and chest. Ten minutes must have passed, before Sweeney remembered where he was.

Now was the time, Mrs Lovett thought, steeling herself. Now's the time to strike.

'It's over love,' the baker said, placing one of her small, gloved hands over the vested shoulder, now stained with fresh blood. Mrs Lovett couldn't help wondering how many men's blood now stained her love's clothes. Mr Todd was certainly an efficient one. No one could accuse him of being a slacker.

'It's over,' she repeated, as if the lull of her voice could drown him out of his own private fires. 'It's time we forget this nasty business. What's past is past.'

Suddenly the barber's eyes flew up at Mrs Lovett's comforting form, ablaze with a mad fire that she briefly hoped was love. 'Johanna.'

Mrs Lovett frowned inwardly. 'Wot about her then?' If it wasn't the blonde nitwit of a wife, it was his daughter. No one had ever sung a ballad about _Mrs Lovett. _

'Where is she?' Mr Todd was scrambling to his feet, the Judge all but forgotten. He paused. 'Is she…alive?'

Mrs Lovett removed the comforting hand, now all business, hands on hips again. 'I should think so. Young Tony said he was to bring her here when 'e'd called a coach.' She held her breath, realising she'd revealed too much.

Sweeney took her by the shoulders. 'A coach?' He shook her roughly. 'He plans to steal away my girl!' That same fire flared up again.

Mrs Lovett knew that fire. He was only like _that _at the thought of killing someone. Else he was like a half-strangled dog staring off into heaven knows what; a great, useless thing he was. 'Mr T, please,' Mrs Lovett grasped his arm, 'you've got to let her go.'

'I've waited fifteen years, Sweeney said, 'I'll slit his throat – _any _man's throat, 'e who dares take 'er from me!'

'Wait!' Mrs Lovett's voice was filled with such earnest, that it drew him back from ascending the stairs. 'Think about it love, _think,_' she whispered, drawing her face close to his. 'Are you gonna spill 'is blood in front of the poor little lamb? You plan to lock her up like the Judge, stop 'er from seeing a soul? She won't thank you, you know.'

Mrs Lovett let this sink into Sweeney's scrambled mind for a moment. 'Bringing that little girl into this world was the best thing you did in your life Mr T.' Clearly, her words were taking effect to his tortured soul, because he did not run up the stairs after Anthony. He was waiting for her to speak. 'Now love,' Mrs Lovett continued,' I can think of something just as worthy you can do.'

'What?' Mr T met her gaze, and there Mrs Lovett saw a glimpse of the man he had been before all this terrible business started.

Mrs Lovett returned the gaze, and for once _was _thinking of Johanna's happiness as much as her own. 'Let 'er go. Let 'er 'ave the happiness you 'ad with your Lucy all those years ago. Don't,' she added, her gaze sweeping round the dank, bloodied oven room, 'let 'er see all this. And she will, you know, if you make 'er stay. You can't go back love,' Mrs Lovett finished with a final dramatic whisper, 'you can't change wot's done.'

Sweeney broke away, walking stiffly to the furnace. He looked in that fire for a long time.

'With me, you don't 'ave to hide wot you are,' she added, although I don't know if Sweeney heard her, lost as he was in the embers of the past.

It was true, everything Mrs Lovett said. Whether he would ever realise it, she was the only woman who would ever love him completely and utterly for what he was, once the naïve Benjamin Barker, now the Demon Baber of Fleet Street. I don't know if we could call it a rare meeting of two psychopathic, kindred spirits, or simply a warped, blindly devoted lust on the widowed baker's part, but in Mrs Lovett's dark, age-worn eyes, it was love.

Suddenly Sweeney Todd slammed the furnace shut with a shuddering bang, and when he at last turned around some of the mad fire had died in his eyes. 'I've decided. Johanna will 'ave her freedom. On one condition.'

Mrs Lovett raised a brow.

'I get to farewell 'er.'

'Well,' said Mrs Lovett, dusting her hands and inspecting Sweeney's clothes, matted from head to toe in dried blood, 'we're gonna 'ave to do somethin' about your presentation.'

And so after Mrs Lovett raced upstairs and caught Antony and his blonde betrothed waiting in her shop for the coach, she had it decided that Mr Todd would clean himself up and say his goodbyes to Johanna. Mrs Lovett had to admit, when she laid eyes on the girl for the first time, she was surprised. She'd been expecting some daft vacant child all face an' no brain like her mother.

'Thank you for hiding us,' Johanna whispered in that tiny child's voice, no stronger than a finch's.

Mrs Lovett crossed her arms. Anthony was watching them impatiently, eager to go to the coach. In Johanna's eyes Mrs Lovett read no impatience, only meek sadness. There was a lifetime of sadness welled up in those eyes, as if she knew, wherever they went, that the ghosts of her parents would follow her. Mrs Lovett was impressed. The girl was not even sixteen years.

'Care for a pie dearies?' Mr Lovett said, going to the oven and offering them a pie from the tray. Mrs Lovett waited, watching them both. She wasn't evil. It was just that she couldn't stand waste.

'Now remember, it's our little secret. Mr Todd will get himself into a right tizzy if 'e discovers I've been wasting our goods on you little ragamuffins.' Mrs Lovett winked co-conspiratorially at them. 'Well?' The warm smell wafted across the room. It was obvious the two lovebirds were hungry. Anthony leaned forward, and took one gingerly. He took a small, tentative bite, and as the taste coursed through his mouth he devoured the rest of it.

'Wot about you pet?' Mrs Lovett waved the tray in Johanna's direction. The little blonde shook her head vehemently. Her caged eyes darted towards Mrs Lovett and back to Anthony. It was clear she was not as trusting as the boy. It was clear that she didn't trust Mrs Lovett a wink. Mrs Lovett returned the suspicious gaze with a warm smile._ Wise girl_.

She placed the tray back in the oven. No use Mr T finding out she'd been attempting to stuff his girl with his murdered customers. 'Well, no time for beating about the bush,' Mrs Lovett said loudly, rubbing her gloved hands together. It was the cue for Mr Todd to make his appearance, now that he was spiffied up.

'Mrs Lovett.' The voice alone commanded her to turn around. Mrs Lovett found her stiff joints giving way just a little. She had to rest one of her hands on the grubby kitchen bench. It was hard not to stare. Wasn't he _spiffy. _

The pale face was still there, alright, as were the haunted eyes and lined forehead, but what a wonder a change of clothes did for Mr T. He'd washed off all the blood of course, and now he was smartly dressed in a simple white barber's shirt, a navy blue best and black trousers. It was a surprise to her that women weren't throwing themselves at him. It was probably the only time Mrs Lovett had ever seen him nervous. Trust a man, she thought. Completely at ease with throat-slicing, but goes to pieces in front of a little blonde china doll.

'Now then,' Mrs Lovett said gently, realising she would be doing most of the talking, 'let's get these two little moppets home.' She took Mr T by the hand and brought him standing directly in front of Tony and Johanna. There was another reason for her urgency. Judge Turpin was still rotting in the furnace room below, along with the rest of the bodies. Pretty soon he would be noticed missing, and the police would be out searching for a body. Mrs Lovett looked back and forth at the couple and Mr T. Poor thing was a right mess, Mr Todd's hands were shaking, and he had no eyes for nothing but his girl. Even for someone as lacking in sentiment as Mrs Lovett, it was a touching moment.

'Where are me manners,' Mrs Lovett said finally, clapping her hands in a gesture to bring Mr Todd to his senses. The girl was trembling, though out of fear, not emotion. Poor Mr T didn't know he was staring _quite _so hard.

'Johanna,' he spoke suddenly, dropping her name in the air like a treasured glass is dropped to the ground. The girl didn't say anything, predictably. Just like her father, she was.

'Exactly,' Mrs Lovett said, smiling enough smiles for all four of them. 'This 'ere's Johanna, Anthony's bride-to-be, Johana, this 'ere's Mr Sweeney Todd.'

Johanna gave the smallest of bows. 'Thank you for your generosity sir.'

Yes, Mr T was completely enchanted. It was going to take all Mrs Lovett's powers of persuasion to keep this under wraps.

'My pleasure,' Mr T answered, on the point of choking.

Mrs Lovett wondered if he wasn't going to faint. 'Now 'ere Mr Todd,' she began, when he cut her off.

'That's an honest girl you 'ave there Anthony,' Sweeney said, never taking his eyes off his daughter's face. Mr T had never been the liveliest of sorts, but in the girl's presence some of the emptiness went out of those dark eyes, and something human returned. 'You had better take care of her.'

Anthony looked nervously at his former sea companion. Their eyes met. It was a threat, of that he was in no doubt, but the older man nodded, and the two of them reached a wordless agreement. Anthony had no idea of Johanna's true parentage, but he understood that Mr Todd was concerned for his future bride. Maybe she reminded him of his own daughter, if he had had one, which Anthony was certain he had. Mr Todd had never said much during their voyage on the sea together, but Anthony knew that he had lost his family, someone he had loved. It was the only answer he found that explained how a man like Mr Todd could have been destroyed, for someone as kind as innocent as Anthony felt he could sense who had been wronged and who had done wrong to others. It was the difference, say, between someone like Johanna, and someone like Judge Turpin and the Beadle. So Anthony returned Mr Todd's nodd, promising that he would care for Johanna. He would have the life, have the family that Mr Todd had never had, or lost. Anthony's gaze returned to Johanna and he eyed her sweetly. How glad he was to finally _have her _to herself!

Mrs Lovett pretended to wipe a tear from her eye. Secretly she rolled her eyes heavenward. It was sweet, for the first three minutes, but as I have mentioned, Mrs Lovett was not the most sentimental woman, and couldn't help wishing they would pack themselves into their carriage. She cleared her throat. This seemed to galvanize Mr Todd. He drew something out of his vest pocket.

'I... I have something,' he said, staring directly at Johann again. 'I have something for you. A gift.'

Johanna looked at Anthony, surprised.

'For your wedding,' Sweeney added, giving what he hoped was a friendly smile. I doubt she was used to having gifts generously donated, having lived with Judge Turpin. He took the thin, gentle white hand in his own rough, tanned one and placed something shimmering and golden in the tiny palm. 'I never got a chance…to give it to my wife.'

Johanna thought to ask what had become of his wife, but was so baffled by the sad longing in those eyes that she thought better of it. Instead, she turned her eyes to the beautiful locket gleaming in her hand, a plain golden circle, like a miniature sun. Johanna opened the locket, and saw two people in the two interior circles. The man, Johanna saw, was Mrs Lovett's now husband, before the world's troubles had blighted his looks. The girl smiled. He had been handsome. Then her eye rested on the second picture – his old wife. She had long, pale hair; small, thin lips like herself. Johanna felt a sudden, sad affection for this lost woman, this woman long forgotten over the years except by this haunted man. Johanna hoped Anthony would care for her that intensely through the passing years.

'I thank you sir,' said Johanna, sincerely this time, finding as she gazed into the barber's eyes a kindred spirit. They had both known suffering.

'Well, that's that then,' Mrs Lovett intervened, breaking the strangely intimate moment, 'I expect your coach 'as arrived.'

'Yes,' Johanna said, finally finding her voice.

'We will never forget this kindness,' Anthony said, speaking for them both with a warmth that became him. They shook hands, the women embraced.

_At last, _Mrs Lovett thought. Good riddance. She sat Mr Todd down by the bench where he'd first sat those six months ago, straight off the boat. She left him starting there for now, lost in the past. He'd make a right good scarecrow, Mrs Lovett mused, who often found herself breaking into humorous observations to stop herself from sharing the real well of emotions, the longing beneath the dry veneer.

'Wait,' Mrs Lovett found herself going out to the young couple, stopping just outside the doorway. 'Don't tell Mr T,' she whispered, 'but I think you could use this.' Mrs Lovett took the same gold and maroon purse-bag that had once belonged to Senor Pirelli out of her corset and placed in Anthony's hand. 'Don't spend it all once love,' she said with a little laugh.'

The two looked at her again, Anthony grateful, Johanna surprised. Then they scrambled into the coach and sped off to whatever life awaited them.

'Alls well that ends well, that's what I say,' Mrs Lovett said, somewhat predictably, re-entering the shop. 'Mr T?" Sweeney Todd was missing from his favourite staring spot. Suddenly she remembered the one oversight she had forgotten in her rush to get ride of Johanna.

_Toby. _And Mr Todd was missing.

Before Mr T had been interrupted by the arrival of the Beadle and then the Judge, they had been about to dispatch of Toby. Don't misjudge Mrs Lovett – she loved that child, with the greatest amount of affection possible, like he was her son. It was simply the fact that she loved Sweeney Todd a great deal more, more than her dear old Albert and Toby combined. We might call such love destructive. Mrs Lovett would have called it practical.

What was to be done? Mrs Lovett _had _intended for Toby to be done away with, but now, as she made her way down the basement steps into the furnace room below, she had a sudden change of heart. He was just a _boy_, after all. Now history was behind them, she and Mr T could have the life she dreamed. They could afford a cosy little house by the sea from the enormous sales of her pies. If the boy could be trusted, why couldn't Toby be part of that life? She _had _always wanted a son. But poor old Albert with his good for nothing impotence had put an end to that dream.


	2. Convincing Toby

**CHAPTER II: Convincing Toby**

'Mr T?' Mrs Lovett came gingerly down the stairs. To be honest, she had no idea what kind of state Mr T was in. She had to expect a few temper-tantrums at least, now his daughter was gone. In her worst fears, she expected to find the poor little child's body waiting by the furnace. When she reached the foot of the stairs and the fire light from the furnace spilled over the floor, Mrs Lovett _did _see Sweeny Todd bending over a body, his newly washed white shirt now a rather more vivid shade of red.

'Mr T!' Mrs Lovett covered her mouth. 'You didn't!' She was too late to save the boy.

And Mr T spun round, one hand holding one of his silver razors, looking like a school boy caught with his hand in the lolly jar. 'Just tidying up…'

Mrs Lovett brushed past him and stared at the mess on the floor. Thank heavens, it was just the Judge. She wasn't particularly sorry to see _his _slimy hands and elbows and feet scattered across the floor in little pieces.

There wasn't a woman the eminent man of law hadn't tried to seduce, or _paid _to seduce. Mrs Lovett could remember when she was a girl of twenty-three and had her first real job after her mother died. She'd been the store assistant at a reputable haberdashery, fitting customer's and recording appointments and sales and all the administrative side of the business, mainly because her sewing wasn't up to scratch with the other girls', and because to be truthful Mrs Lovett wasn't the most dedicated seamstress unless she was making clothes for herself. Even all these years later, she could still remember the slippery Judge and his even slipperier man-servant, the Beadle, slink through the shop doors. They'd asked to handle every fabric in the shop, view every design, and by the end of the fitting Mrs Lovett had the idea the lengthy process had more to do with the Judge's lust for a new pretty face than new pretty clothes. He promised he would escort her to all the fashionable London parties, which sounded especially false to Mrs Lovett's ears: a) being poor and b) being a lot more perceptive than half the girls her age.

She had rejected his advances, of course, every woman in the city knew the Judge never married his conquests, and after a few weeks of hassle Mrs Lovett had unexpectedly met and married her dear old Albert, and that was that. She had moved out of the top floor of the haberdashery and to one of the densely packed two-storey London boxes (they were too small to be called houses) with Albert, and was never troubled by the Judge again. It was fortunate that she had married down, instead of up, for that way she escaped the Judge's notice. It was also fortunate that he developed a longing for one of the other shop girls' quite soon after, and the last Mrs Lovett heard the poor girl had gotten herself pregnant and was cast out on the street begging. Not Mrs Lovett. She was too eminently practical for_ that_.

'Yes, well, you'd better clean it up,' Mrs Lovett scolded, for all the world sounding like a school teacher administering a punishment. 'Don't want the police snooping about 'ere. Now, what about the boy?' she said, suddenly remembering Toby in all this mess.

'He's probably hiding,' Mr Todd said, looking down the grates in the floor. 'Better search the sewers.' He lifted the grate off and wiped the bloody little razor on his pants.

'Wait.' Mrs Lovett took the weapon out of his hands. 'I've changed me mind. There's no need for killing him. Let me talk to him. He won't talk. And if he does, who'll believe such a tale? We'll clean up the evidence, and be long gone by the time the law comes.'

Sweeny Todd stared at her. It was a tired stare, but he suddenly broke out in wide grin. Probably a result of all the stress, she thought. 'Eminently practical as usual, Mrs Lovett.'

* * *

'Tobbbbbbyyyy. Tobbbbbbbyyy.' Mrs Lovett lifted her skirts and bent her head walking down the tunnel. 'Love, please come out. Nothin's gonna harm you, I swear.'

She had left Mr T brooding upstairs. Toby _certainly _wouldn't come out if he knew he was with her. 'Tobbbbbbbbbyyy my love. Come out! Mr Todd said he's sorry he killed all those people.' Even to Mrs Lovett, it sounded unconvincing. Mr T was only sorry for _one_ thing, and that was that he hadn't killed the Judge the moment the man had laid eyes on his wife. Mrs Lovett tried a different tack.

'I'm sorry love,' she said, sobbing a little,' but I had no choice. Mr T said if I didn't put those people into pies it'd be _me _in the meat pie next. You can understand, can't you? 'ow scared I was? But now 'e's changed. 'e's doe with killing. 'e wants to make things right. That's why we're going away. Far away….to the seaside.'

She paused, letting all this news sink in. Mrs Lovett was sure Toby wasn't far away. The sewers ran for miles in all directions. It would be too easy to get lost there forever. He was probably waiting for the right moment when he could sneak past and make a run for it out of the furnace room.

'Toby….I know you 'aven't got a mother. I'm not the best mother a boy could 'ave. But if you want… I could take you away from this….(this time she _did _put real feeling into her words, for as we have discussed, Mrs Lovett _did _care for the boy in her own way)…I could be your…._new _mother….if you'd like. And I promise….on my life, (she crossed her heart as she said this)…there'll be _no more killings. _Eh? Whaddyou say ta that?'

Mrs Lovett waited a few minutes, wondering if she was talking to the rats instead, when suddenly a human figure, a _small _figure, emerged from the shadows. It was Toby alright, only a different Toby, definitely more guarded, more hardened. He had lost some of the child in him. It almost broke Mrs Lovett's tiny heart to see it.

'And you promise…' he faltered. There was still a great enough distance between them that he could run if necessary. 'you _promise_….no more killings?'

Mrs Lovett nodded, her auburn ringlets bobbing, making her appear almost innocent, like a little girl's dolly. 'I promise. Cross me 'eart an' 'ope to die.'

'What about Mr Todd?' Toby lifted his eyes to the tunnel ceiling, where somewhere above Mr T was surely waiting.

'Oh love 'e won't harm no one no more,' Mrs Lovett said, opening her arms so that Toby could see she was both unarmed and loving. 'He's more like a vegetable now. 'E just wants to put tha past behind 'im.'

Toby stared at her as if she were mad, which she wasn't. Just obsessed. Then he saw that if _she _couldn't be a grown-up, he would have to be. 'It's not safe,' he said, grabbing her arm. 'Even if he made you do all those things, we can't stay here! We've got to go to the police, we've got to tell them what you know!'

'No Toby dear,' said Mrs Lovett sighing, _almost _sad, 'we can't do nothin' of the sort. I love 'im you see. Monster he may be, but I still love 'im. I'd die first before I gave 'im up.'

Toby's bewildered face would almost have looked comical were the subject of conversation not so serious. 'E don't deserve you 'mum. You deserve someone who loves you. Someone to protect ya. _I'll _never desert you.'

Mrs Lovett smoothed his grubby hair. 'I know love, I know. But truth is, I don't need protectin'. But I can't let you wander them streets by yourself now, can I?'

Toby held himself just out of her reach. 'But 'e'll 'ave to kill _me. _I know _everythin'_.'

Mrs Lovett knelt down to the boy's eye-level, and for once that dry smile vanished. He could see her sadness, her honesty. ''e won't touch a hair on your head. I wouldn't let 'im. But you've got to keep quiet about all this.'

Tobby hesitated, torn between his horror and his desire to look after Mrs Lovett. But maybe we can also say that Toby was thinking of himself. If he went to the police, they would put Mr Todd in gaol or hang him (where he belonged) but then Mrs Lovett would almost certainly suffer the same fate. And where would he end up? In the poor house, no doubt, starving to death. If he went with Mrs Lovett he had a chance of a life, somewhere pretty by the sea. And if Mr Todd tried to touch her, Toby would fix him. Then he and 'mum would run away together, maybe even on a boat out to sea, find a lonely island where they could fish and watch the sunset everyday and never get a whippin' in his life again.

'Alright,' Toby said finally, 'I give you me solemn oath.' And he crossed his heart, his childish face suddenly much wiser, much older in years, than Mrs Lovett's.

'Let's go up n' bury the hatchet then. I except Mr T 'll be waiting for us.' Mrs Lovett's face burst into a smile at the thought of stealing Mr Todd away to the sea side. At last, she'd have him all for herself. There'd be no Judge or Lucy or Joanna competing for his attention. Mrs Lovett picked up her skirts and climbed out of the sewers. 'Ah, e's gonna love the seaside.'

'You mean you 'aven't _told_ 'im?' Toby hurried after her.

'Now now Toby, Mr T needs a little time t'a adjust. You can't just spring these things suddenly on the poor coopered cove*. 'e needs coaxing.' (*worn-out man)

Toby put a hand on her shoulder and turned her round to face him. Even though his grasp was that of a child, his gaze was firm and solemn. Mrs Lovett couldn't buy him with any sweet songs no more. 'Leave it out 'mum. Mr T's a bludger*, not a lamb.' (*violent criminal, i.e. one who uses a bludgeon)

Their eyes held briefly, and Toby caught a glimpse of the real, broken Mrs Lovett. Then it was gone.

'Toby!' Mrs Lovett's gloved hand flew to her mouth, her eyes nearly popping out of her skull. It was a very comic-circus expression, like a clown. 'We'll 'ave no such words in this 'ouse about Mr T. 'e's learnt 'is lesson an' now 'e's promised to make it right. Anyway the sea air will be a welcome change for 'im I expect. Can't do no brooding what with the summer sun all shinin' and waves lappin' on the shore.'

Now that she had control of the situation, Mrs Lovett's actress-demeanour had returned. Sometimes Toby wondered if Mrs Lovett should have been an actress at a Penny Gaff* instead of a baker. (*Lower class, vulgar theatre).

Toby waited until they reached the top of the stairs. Mr Todd was sitting in the chair by the window, staring out the glass of Mrs Lovett's shop-front. 'When are we goin' then?' Toby went to the back door and stood half-outside it.

Mrs Lovett paused, and in the small arrow of light that poured through the doorway she suddenly looked very tired. Toby felt himself swallowing a desire to run to the filth* and spill his guts about the whole mess. (*the police) He knew that despite all the horrible things this woman had done, she was the closest thing to a mother he'd get. It was up to him to protect her. Would Toby have felt so protective if he had known Mrs Lovett had been planning to do away with him less than half-an-hour ago? I think we can guess the answer to that.

'Tomorrow love,' Mrs Lovett answered, brushing the dust and other dark, crusty materials from her hair. 'Now run along an' play. Me and Mr T 'ave got a lot ta discuss.'

Toby stared at Mr Todd, sitting away brooding in the corner. It didn't seem like Mr Todd would be doing any of the discussing. He was lost in a world of his own. 'If you don't mind, 'mum',' said Toby, finding some of his old self coming back, 'I'd like to stay 'ere. I'll be real quiet, I promise.'

Truth was, Toby didn't really want to stay. The thought of sticking around one minute in the pie-shop, what with the smells and the sights of all he had seen downstairs, and the knowledge that the killer was a few metres away from him, was more than Toby's small stomach could bear. But he was an extremely brave child, and he also couldn't bear the thought of any harm coming to his 'mum while Mr Todd was lurking around. He'd made himself a promise to protect her, and that meant never letting her out of his sight. _Especially _while Mr Todd was around.

'You'll do nothin' of the sort,' Mrs Lovett said, crossing the door where Toby waited. 'This is grown-up's business. Besides, who's gonna buy all them provisions we need for out trip to the sea?' She drew out a few coins from her purse and stuffed them in Toby's grubby hand. 'Now, there's a good lad, go and buy us some food for the journey. An' don't forget the drink!'

Mrs Lovett all but pushed Toby out the door. The bell jangled as it slammed in his face, but Toby wasn't leaving. He crossed the road and waited until Mrs Lovett began moving around the shop-front. Then he snuck back over and hid beside the pie-shop window. Even though the lights were out in the shop, the street-lamps lit up her silhouette. Toby waited. He would be ready if Mr Todd decided to strike.

* * *


	3. Putting Out the Flames

_**A/N:**__ Thanks to those who took the time to review: alchemistic, koolkay, Todd666, ConfusedColumbia26220__ - you guys made my day!_

_It's really heartening for the author to get inspiration from others. =D Oh, and thanks to Koolkay for the grammar suggestion!_

_Sorry for the wait – I'm writing Dark Knight, Star Wars and Sleepy Hollow fics at the same time._

_Originally this was going to be a one-shot, but now I've got quite a long drama planned out._

_This chapter is a little slow, but hang in there please. It's getting there!_

_Poor Mistah T needs time to adjust! _

_**Warning: **__**If you are squeamish, this chapter might not be for you. But then what are you doing reading Sweeney Todd he he he.**_**  
**

**~*~Chapter Three: Putting Out the Flames ~*~  
**

''The boy needs to go,'' were the first words that came out of Mr Todd's mouth.

Mrs Lovett closed the shop door gently. The bell jingled, but only slightly. She knew how Mr T could get funny about noise. Well, certain noises. He couldn't stand the sound of a kettle boiling, for one.

He was sitting at the table across from the door. The one still splattered with the stains from yesterday's meat pies. Now that the pie-shop was closed for good, there was an eeriness that came from the emptiness outside.

Most nights were full of noises: drunk customers stuffing themselves, shouts for more ale, orders to Toby to throw the old woman –

Mrs Lovett stopped herself from thinking about Mr T's wife. Guilt wasn't her colour.

It was hard _not_ to wear it, though, when he was looking at her like that. She knew that look well. Those eyes, bubbling fury just beneath their surface.

When Mr T's fury came, it wouldn't have mattered who he was staring at. It could have been his wife, or his daughter. Mr T wouldn't remember what'd he'd done. That black anger clogged up inside him, like soot in the chimney (Mrs Lovett remembered she hadn't swept the chimney in ages) and well – it wasn't a pretty sight for the person who had to clean the chimney.

You only had to say the time of day and Mr T would fly off into one of his rages – and in a matter of moments later, he'd have forgotten the whole thing. Like a possessed man.

Until the deed was over.

Mrs Lovett shuddered. It was one of the few times she felt truly afraid of him. Most of the time she treated his thirst for bloodlust and revenge as all part of Mr T's split personality complex. He was two people under that vengeful skin, Mrs Lovett felt certain. One person was Benjamin Barker, the naïve, gentle husband and father. The other was Sweeney Todd, the single-minded, compassionless killer. The problem was Sweeney Todd was stealing all the lime-light, shoving poor Mr Barker under the bed. It was up to Mrs Lovett to bring the two together again. When Benjamin Barker could come out from under the bed, look Mr Todd in the eye and nod his head – when he could tell it to _himself_ that he was both made of darkness _and_ light, only then would the man before her be complete.

None of this 'my arm is complete' nonsense. One day, Mrs Lovett hoped to toss those razors into the ocean. Let the tide sweep them out to sea and let some silly sea creature swallow them. But for now, Mrs Lovett had to be content with staying alive.

''Now, Mr T,'' she began, brushing down her skirts in a let's-get-to-business fashion in order to hide her nerves, ''Let the boy alone. We got otha pressin' matters – ''

''No.''

Mr Todd stood, suddenly commanding. The shadows hid his face from her. Mrs Lovett glanced at his hand. There, a silver blade glimmered at the end. In the darkness it appeared as if he had a blade for a hand. Or scissors. Mrs Lovett blinked, forcing her gaze to return to the shadowed man. This was no time for fancy. Not when her life was at stake.

''The boy _will _die, Mrs Lovett.''

He advanced toward her with his knife.

''Easy love, easy.'' Mrs Lovett took a step back.

''Come here Mrs Lovett,'' he said, his voice thick and coarse. Probably from too much blood-shedding, Mrs Lovett thought.

Mrs Lovett shook her head. Her curls bobbed, a faint reminder that life stilled glowed in the most terrible of places. ''I won't have it Mr T. I won't let you bully us.''

''Us?'' Mr Todd smiled, but it was a tight, unflinching smile that never reached his eyes. Mrs Lovett suspected he hadn't given one of the other sort of smiles since the day he lost his family. Perhaps the closest she'd seen to Mr T being happy was when he'd slaughtered the Judge.

''Mrs Lovett,'' he said a little too fondly, sweeping the hand of his razor wide, ''what a simpleton you are. A nice, happy family. Is that what you were thinking?"'

He left the question hanging, his eyes brimming over with that bubbling black fire. What _was he? _What sort of man was he? That was what Mrs Lovett yearned to know. Heaven knows why she loved him. She could've had married any sort of man, in her youth. Stupid men, fat men, working men, swindling men, caring men, _handsome men. _It was true – Mrs Lovett could have had any man.

_Why, _then, she found herself asking? It wasn't the first time she'd asked herself that question. _Why _had she wasted her youth pining after a man that would probably have the same regard for her body dumped in the sewer as he did for the living, breathing Mrs Lovett before him now?

Mrs Lovett wasn't vain. But she was an intelligent, attractive woman. And nearly all intelligent, attractive women _know_ they are. She knew she had something to offer the razor-wielding man before her. But he just didn't see it. Sometimes Mrs Lovett felt as if there was an invisible wall between them. She could sing and shout and turn a dozen cart-wheels but Mr Todd would never blink an eye in her direction. Mrs Lovett put her hand on her hip, sighing. She played the weary middle-aged baker well, when she wanted. But it was only to hide her trembling hands. The bead of sweat that gathered at the back of her neck, while she wondered. Wondering what Mr Todd was going to do.

Don't get the wrong end of the stick – it wasn't often that Mrs Lovett fell into bouts of despair. When she did, it was usually at moments such as this – when Sweeney Todd was advancing towards her with a murderous expression. Then, all her hopes and dreams of running away with him to the seaside took a tumble down the drain and Nellie felt her life flash before her eyes.

In a few quick strides, Mr Todd closed the space between them. Ordinarily, Mrs Lovett would have given her left arm (she only really needed her right one) for a chance to be this close with the object of her desire. To have him stare down at her with that intense, harrowed gaze. To have him speak to her kindly, softly, the way he had spoken to Joanna. To have his voice break with emotion at the thought of holding her, of having her at last. To look down at her with the eyes of love, instead of that same, infuriating contempt he treated everyone with except his damned Lucy and Joanna.

But now, even though he gripped her arm, and was standing right above her, Mrs Lovett only felt fear. The sad thing was, Mrs Lovett thought, closing her eyes briefly to hold back her emotions, it would probably take Mr T to die before he'd feel compassion for another human being again.

''We aren't a family Mrs Lovett,'' he stared with those expressionless eyes, holding the razor to her throat. Mrs Lovett grimaced, only slightly. She was too busy concentrating on the gleaming blade to be worrying too much about whether Mr T had really lost his marbles this time. The _last _time he had held a razor to her throat, Mrs Lovett had truly believed it was curtains for her. She had pushed just a little too far with her merry inspirational talk, and it had almost ended badly. Now she had done it again, shoving her foot where it didn't belong. Hoping she could change him. Hoping for a little happiness.

_Well, _she thought to herself, _that's _what I get for dreaming a little happiness. Me neck slit! The worst of is, she continued thinking, her heart racing in time with the bubbling in his eyes; the man about to murder me is the only man I've ever loved.

It would be sad if that was indeed Mrs Lovett's last thought. But it wasn't.

Mrs Lovett actually had a little more time to think, because Sweeney Todd was considering _how _to carve up Mrs Lovett, instead of simply doing it then and there. He was wondering: should I simply slice her and be done with it? Should I slice horizontally, or savour the moment with a few jagged, diagonal stabs? Or should I cut out her voice box, and shut up that impertinent woman's insane blather once and for all?

''_Mistah T,'' _Mrs Lovett whispered, suddenly thinking of her last card, 'Think of Joanna. Wot would _she _want you to do? I thought you was done with killings.' And for once in her life, Mrs Lovett knew when to leave off, and put her faith in silence. She had said just the right things to have him think, and now shut-up long enough for him to think them over twice.

''Yes,'' Mr Todd said finally. He slowly drew the blade away from her throat. ''I'm done with killings.''

_For now, _he added as a brief afterthought. But he wasn't going to kill Mrs Lovett. At least not that night. For the face of Joanna lingered before him, a slight, shimmering vision of the girl he had farewelled that afternoon. And he knew he could never think of either his girl or Lucy again, not tenderly, if he sliced up this annoying woman.

Slicing up all those men – that was different, he reasoned. He never killed the ones that had a family, at least, the ones smart enough to bring their family. He was doing the world a favour, in part, killing off those men. Half of them were pimps, fraudsters, thugs, rakes, some of them murderers themselves. They no more deserved to live than he did. If they got him one day and cut his throat in some dark alleyway, that was fate. If they chose to come up to Sweeney's for a shave, they signed away their life to him.

But, he reminded himself, as if to wash away the thought of what he had almost done, he never touched a family. He had never killed a woman. If a stranger had found out his secrets, he would have killed them, woman or man, but here was Mrs Lovett, who had even _suggested _he cut up the customers. If he killed her now, he was no better than Judge Turpin. And who knew, he wondered, if his wife could see him now, about to cut up a woman who in her younger days, had been as bright and vibrant as his wife.

Make no mistake. Mr Todd didn't repent his crimes. But for the simple, lucky reason that Mrs Todd had gotten through to some human part of him, she had survived. If she hadn't spoken, that bubbling, black fire that she was all too familiar with would have overtaken Mr Todd, and he would have killed her. It wasn't love that saved Mrs Lovett. It was luck.

Mrs Lovett breathed a sigh of relief when he released her. He slid the shimmering blade back into his vest pocket. ''Wot are we going to do then?'' she began, pretending as if nothing had happened.

Mr Todd stared at her, the blank expression back on his face. It was obvious he was back to normal. As normal as he would ever be.

''Hello?'' Mrs Lovett's heart still raced, but her humour had returned to her. ''We got bodies here, we got a stinking smell. Police are gonna come lookin' for a missin' judge. We gotta make while he can.''

Mr Todd stood there, still as statue, contemplating the world beyond the shop window. Either that, or he was stuck in some memory in his head.

Mrs Lovett shook her head disapprovingly. ''Complete basket-case, that one.'' But inside, she was rejoicing. ''Right then,'' she continued, back to school-marm mode, ''since you got no bright ideas, 'ere's wot we're gonna do. You go an' grab your belongings. I'll grab mine. Then we catch the next train outta here. I'm taking you to the sea, Mr T. Wot do you think of that?''

''The sea?'' he echoed, probably not really hearing her.

''Yeah. We talked about it before. Wot you think?''

He paused, and Mrs Lovett thought he was actually considering. Then, ''Joanna's gone.''

_Ruddy Joanna, _Mrs Lovett thought. Instead, she huffed. ''The sea then, since you aren't fussy. Now, upstairs Mr T, and pack what you need.'' She watched the man disappear upstairs, until only his boots were visible on the stairs. It didn't take long for Mrs Lovett to pack. She went to one of the wooden spaces beneath her counter. There, her packed little bag was waiting. It was her 'by the sea,' bag.

Mrs Lovett had it ready for emergencies such as these. It hoisted quite easily over her shoulder, and Mrs Lovett waited until Mr Todd emerged from the darkness with his pitifully small belongings, before shutting up shop for good.

Toby was waiting for them outside the shop. He was nervous, and very restless. 'Wot's he doing 'ere,' he asked Mrs Lovett sourly, glaring at Mr Todd. He'd hoped she pushed him down the stairs.

''Give me any cheek,'' Mr Todd warned, bending down to meet Toby on eye-level, ''and I'll slit your belly side to side.''

Toby was much more subdued after that. It was perfect timing, their leaving. It was now completely dark, and no one paid much attention to the trio as they passed through the night-time streets. They looked a family going home from an evening walk. It was also perfect timing in another sense.

A constable had arrived outside Mrs Lovett's pie-shop, responding to a missing person's report regarding the disappearance of Judge Turpin. Constable Lithgow had heard stories, of course, when he'd stopped for a pie in Mrs Moony's pie-shop across the road (he was the kind of person who ate pies _knowing _they were made out dead cats). He'd heard about some of the men who had gone up to Sweeney Todd's for a shave and never come down. But, as he reminded the gossipers, half those men were murderers and rakes anyway, so it wasn't really a huge loss to London if a few of them were sliced up.

As you can imagine, so many people went missing in the city that no one ever bothered to report them. It was only when great, important men of the law such as Judge Turpin turned up missing that you sent out the coppers to investigate. After a while, when the Constable rang the bell and no one answered, he considered just going home. But the thought of having to fill out an empty report and hand it into the smug Commissioner's face, _that _was what stopped him. He forced his way in the shop, and set about investigating.

It was only when he reached the bottom chambers, that he learnt the truth about Mrs Lovett's pie-shop. And it was much, much worse than anything Mrs Moony could have dreamed up. Constable Lithgow gagged. He was going to need the whole police department for this one.

_Yay. You made it! Now, be a nice reader, and hit the review button. Yes…it's right there. _

_Come one…you know you want to…..=p_


	4. A Trip Down Nightmare Lane

_**A/N:**__ Thank you, thank you tonnes for the reviews! And to the silent readers! It helps me know I'm going in the right direction with this fic._

_On that note, don't expect this to be fluffy Sweenett. It's going to be unrequited love for Mrs Lovett for a while. Mr Todd isn't going to fall for Mrs Lovett overnight people! =D._

_It's going to take a brain transplant for that to happen….that, or a little sea-side change to help out our mourning Mr T. _

_I'm doing my best to keep everyone in character AND holding the suspense – BUT –_

_Don't be afraid to be honest with me! I want this fic to be the best it can be. Enjoy!_

**Chapter 4: A Trip Down Nightmare Lane**

It appeared that Mrs Lovett's Guardian Angel (or Demon) was watching over her rather intently, because a lot of things were running in her favour that evening. Or early morning, depending on whether you were the glass half-full or half-empty sort of person. Mrs Lovett was definitely the glass half-full sort of person, as we have seen so far.

Getting back to Mrs Lovett's exceedingly good luck – she was lucky, for one, that Constable Lithgow had missed the trio fleeing the pie shop by precisely twelve minutes. She was also lucky that after about three o 'clock in the morning, Mr Todd had more in common with a bucket of left-over lard than a blood-thirsty murderer. In other words, he wasn't a morning person at all, and required about three shots of unflavoured tea before he would even think about who he was going to murder next.

Mrs Lovett was also lucky that Toby, and herself were able to last the entire two-and-a-half hour walk through the backstreets of London without uttering so much as a peep. It required all of Mrs Lovett's will-power, since she happened to be a morning person; and it also required all Toby's will-power, since he was itching to scream bloody murder to anyone who would listen. Yet somehow, maybe thanks to that invisible Guardian of Mrs Lovett's, the trio managed to walk quite amiably through the shadowy streets.

Dawn was slowly approaching, highlighting Mr Todd's white streak in his otherwise jet hair, and the sallow bags under his eyes. _Crickets, _Mrs Lovett thought. Poor man needs a good doze. Looks like 'e's taken a long trip down the Devil's Inferno an' come back again.

Which was a fairly accurate observation, considering the happenings on Fleet Street of late.

Mrs Lovett took a sharp right off the main road. Even by five in the morning, the place was filling up with cars and carriages. Man and boy ambled after her, like a pair of dogs following their master.

"Scuse me Mum," said Toby, interrupting her thoughts and attracting livid glares from Mr Todd.

If there was one thing Sweeney hated possibly _more _than the sound of whistling kettles and Mrs Lovett's voice combined, it was the sound of that brat whining. He was already swiftly regretting his decision to let Mrs Lovett keep the boy.

''Mum,'' Toby repeated, tugging on Mrs Lovett's skirts and taking no notice of Mr Todd's clenched fists, ''aren't we 'eadin' in the wrong direction? Train station's that way.''

Toby pointed down the main road they had been heading.

''Right you are Toby,'' Mrs Lovett replied, patting him condescendingly on the head. ''But we aren't ready just yet. Use yer 'ead love. Coppers'll be crawlin' everywhere. We'll be needin' disguises.''

Toby stopped stubbornly on the edge of the alleyway, crossing his arms.

Mrs Lovett sighed. She had lots of different sighs, but this one Toby knew well. It was the type of sigh she gave after baking two hundred pies in the space of an hour. He knew that sigh meant business.

They walked about fifty more paces, past Mr Hardwray's Haberdashery, past Mr Perrywinkle's Shoe-Repair, and a series of other feminine, frivolous shops that Mr Todd sneered at now, but had in his youth spent a great deal of time in, owing to him and Lucy being newlyweds, and he wanting to indulge his young bride.

''An' here we are!'' Mrs Lovett came to a stop before one of the last shops that riddled the side-street. It was less fancy-looking than the others, poorly-lit and run down from thirty years of disrepair, but it was a decent shop. Mrs Lovett should have known, for she had once worked there, all those years ago.

Back when Turpin was on the prowl, coming in with that toad-infested Beadle. Scouring shops like hers for the prettiest young women to add to his conquests.

It was common knowledge that mothers would keep their daughters home from work if they'd received prior knowledge that the Judge was prowling the streets. The worst sort, Nellie reflected, were the mothers that struck a deal with the Judge to arrange a meeting with their daughters – for a tidy price. Mrs Lovett had thanked her mysterious Guardian that her mother was dead and buried five years prior to the Judge showing an interest in her as a young shop assistant, or she too might have gone the way of the other women – too weak and simpering to fend off Turpin's advances.

Mrs Lovett shook her head. She leapt nimbly up onto the step and rang the ball. That was all in the past now.

''Now, you two,'' Mrs Lovett addressed Toby and Mr T, ''I want you on yer best behaviour.''

Toby nodded solemnly. Mr T wasn't even listening. He was staring at Mr Hardwray's Haberdashery down the road, imagining it was fifteen years ago and Lucy was about to step out of the shop.

''Mr T!'' Mrs Lovett clapped her hands impatiently like a circus trainer. ''Did you 'ear?''

For a brief moment, Sweeney thought it was his Lucy calling him. His ears tracked the sound, and his gaze fell upon the uncouth, loquacious woman before him. Wrong dream, he thought miserably.

''Anything you say,'' he whispered hoarsely, _anything _to shut the woman up.

''Good.'' Mrs Lovett was beaming again. She didn't know exactly _why _she was coming to this shop, the shop from her youth. There were a dozen less reputable, cheaper places to choose from.

The man and boy watched as she pressed her pale face against the frosted window, knocking and ringing the bell urgently. ''Come on!''

At last, after ten minutes of knocking and ringing, a face appeared from the inside of the shop. It was a woman, wiping sleep from her bleary eyes. When she saw Mrs Lovett, her eyes popped open in surprise, and she rushed to unlock the door. Mrs Lovett also couldn't hide her surprise. She certainly wasn't expecting –

''Nellie!'' The woman swung the tinkling door open. ''You look frightful!'' It was Mona, a ghost from the past, suddenly come flying back into the present.

Mrs Lovett frowned slightly, but shook it off. It was _true, _Nellie wasn't the pink-cheeked, eye-battering nymphet she had flattered herself for being in her youth. She also knew that anything Mona said wasn't meant unkindly. She was just being herself – honest. Something Mrs Lovett longed to be, but couldn't.

If only you knew what I've been up to, Mona, Mrs Lovett thought while smiling at her old friend. You'd run screamin' out the shop. Oh well, some things can't be 'elped. A woman's gotta earn 'er livin' any way she can. Some do it on the streets. Some do it Mona's way – all hard-workin'an respectable-like with a shop. But this weren't the age where all women could make it the respectable way. Mrs Lovett did it Mrs Lovett's way. And if that involved her baking a few of her famous pies, so be it.

'' 'ow long's it been, us two?'' Nellie put on a maudlin face as she went to embrace Mona. Both drew back, and looked each other over.

''Can't remember!'' Mona chuckled. ''_Well, _look at your pipes!" she lifted Mrs Lovett's red curls under her hand. ''Wish me own 'air looked that fresh. Come in, come in!"

Well, Mrs Lovett thought, surveying her friend with a smug smile, least I'm not the only one who looks worse for wear. Mona had once been considered the local beauty, something Mrs Lovett had always been a little jealous of. You certainly couldn't say that now. Nellie found herself staring at the woman's bulging neck, the paunchy stomach. Her once dark hair was now scraggly and greying. The large, seductive eyes had now faded to something ordinary and crowed; the wide, exotic smile now showed yellowed, missing teeth. It was hard to believe her friend was barely forty years old. If Mona had looked like that twenty years back, the Judge would certainly have let her alone.

Suddenly Mona paused, seeing Mr Todd and Toby standing uncomfortably on the doorstop. Her face broke into a smile, and Nellie caught a glimpse of how her friend had used to look.

''So Nellie's found 'erself a family!' She waved the two floatsam and jetsam in. 'Last time we saw each other you was with Alfred!' Mona winked and shut the shop door behind her.

Mrs Lovett blushed. There was only one thing that could possibly embarrass her, and that subject started with an M and ended in a T. ''I was – 'e – wot I mean is –''

''What my dear wife means is, yes. She has since remarried.''

Mr Todd stepped forward, placing a gloved hand on Mrs Lovett's shoulder. A wry, almost devilish smile crossed his face, but those eyes remained closed off from the rest of the world, ever serious.

Both women turned and stared. Mona was too busy staring herself to notice Mrs lovett's surprise. There was something about Sweeney Todd, no matter who you were, that both captivated and completely unnerved you.

Mr Todd tightened his grip, imperceptibly, on Mrs Lovett's shoulder. Their eyes met briefly in unspoken agreement. _Plan the plan. _

Mrs Lovett wasn't deluded. She was well aware Mr Todd was only acting out of his own selfish need for self-preservation. But she appreciated the gesture nonetheless. It was hard, keeping a sinking ship afloat all by yourself.

''Mona,'' she said, at last finding her nerve, ''this is Mr Todd, me 'usband. And this,'' she said, suddenly remembering Toby in this mess, ''is our boy, Toby.''

She pushed Toby forward, removing the cap from Toby's head. Toby scowled, looking as if he were about to correct them. Mr Todd also scowled. Pretending to be Mrs Lovett's husband was sentence enough, but the boy – ''Mr T's not me – '' Toby began.

''Well love, don't just stand there with ya mouth open,'' Mrs Lovett said, her locomotive mouth rescuing them. 'Go an' see if the butcher's opened. I want a pound of mince, an' be quick, or there'll be a wallopin'!''

Toby rushed out the door, averting his eyes from Mr Todd's penetrating stare. Of course, the pound of mince was really code for, _keep watch for the filth_. Toby knew that they didn't have long to catch the train. An' with morning on the way, it was going to be tight hidin' from the law.

* * *

''So Mrs Todd,'' Mona said, placing her hands on the scratched counter, ''what brings you 'ere?''

Mrs Lovett opened her mouth to answer, and shut it when she felt Mr T's lingering stare on the back of her head.

''Business,'' Mr Todd replied, the firm edge in his voice unmistakable.

''It's _urgent_,'' Mrs Lovett chimed in.

''Well, in that case.'' Mona's friendly charm vanished, and she withdrew the keys to the cash register. ''What can I interest yers in?''

Mr Todd glared at her. If there was anything Sweeney Todd had learnt after fifteen years in a dead-hole colony, it was that even old friends weren't trustworthy. He didn't like the woman. Not that Sweeney took a shine to _anyone, _unless she happened to have blonde hair and went by the name of Lucy or Joanna; but even in his vague, traumatized state, he could tell Mona's smile held cracks in it. And not just from her missing teeth. She was hiding something. Mr Todd knew from experience.

''Anything – '' he began.

'' – somethin' classy,'' Mrs Lovett cut him off. 'Trip to the seaside, you know.''

The grip tightened on her shoulder, but Mrs Lovett couldn't help herself. Mona was her closest friend, and seeing her now was just like seeing the woman risen from the dead. Each of them deserved a little chit-chat. Mr T could kill her later. Well, not literal, Mrs Lovett thought, frowning. She wasn't about to forget how close he'd come to doing just that.

''This'll only take ya ten minutes,'' Mona said, eyeing Mr Todd. ''E's a restless one, ain't 'e?''

Mrs Lovett leaned forward, shrugging off Mr Todd's hand. It was a lot harder ignoring that stare.

'''E hates fine shops. Wouldn't know taste if it jumped 'is bones.''

Mona nodded knowingly. ''Me 'usband's the same.''

Mrs Lovett's gaze darted to the gold sea pearl ring wedged on Mona's fat left finger.

The conversation died. Mrs Lovett found herself thinking back to her past, something she didn't do all that often. Usually she left the brooding to Mr T. But here Mona was, this gross older twin of a woman once known for her open, charming beauty. Too bad for Mona she had been too open.

Mrs Lovett hadn't said much that day, back when she and Mona were only nineteen.

Nellie had been at the back the shop, fitting an elderly woman, when the two 'gentlemen' walked in. Turpin and the Beadle; twenty years younger but no less repulsive. He'd noticed Mona straight away, all dark eyes and youthful skin, fussing with the clothing display at the front display. He'd expressed interest in buying a new suit, Mona had gone to fetch Nellie, but Nellie was busy.

In all, the visit had lasted well over an hour. By the time they left, Nellie was furious. Mona was in love. With the Judge, of all the horrible human beings!

''Don't be daft,' Nellie had chided. ''E does 'is rounds to every pretty shop girl this side of London. Don't ya know 'e goes after us poor women like flies?''

''Nellie, poor green Nellie,' Mona had chanted, her dark eyes sparkling, 'don't be all mad-like just coz the Judge loves me an' not you.''

And it had done no good, Nellie warning her every time the great Judge Turpin had done his rounds for the afternoon, presenting the silly girl with flowers or a pretty trinket or two. Not that it took much to please Mona. Everyone was always falling in love with Mona, and not just for her beauty. She had inherited her Spanish father's dark complexion, and in a century when Ladies spent all their time coveting corpse-pale skin, Mona should have been rejected. But she wasn't. She was like a strange exotic flower that flourished in a garden of pretty tamed flowers. Men were entranced by this, and by her openness, which they took for sign that she was in love with them. How was Mona to know that the Judge was nothing like those other young flirts she knew?

''You don't believe me, do ya. Bout me 'avin' a 'usband?'' Mona, the gross, aged shop-keeper, slapped her hand on the counter.

Mrs Lovett found herself shaking her head and staring at the woman Mona was now. ''Your 'usband?''

Mona nodded.

'''ow's that possible? Last time I heard you was – ''

The dark woman stiffened. ''Put me in the quack 'ouse they did.''

Mrs Lovett gasped. ''So it's true. But 'ow?''

''Ere,'' she said suddenly, fishing out a neatly folded suit from the shelf behind her and handing it to Mr Todd. ''That's about your size. Fittin' room's behind them curtains.'' Mona pointed to the grubby red curtains at the back of the shop.

''An' this is for the little 'un,' Mona finished, placing a smaller suit on the counter. 'Wot about you then?' She looked Mrs Lovett up and down. 'Wot you wear?' Mona turned her back to Mrs Lovett and began searching through the shelves of women's clothing.

''Your 'usband?'' Mrs Lovett repeated it, not sure if she had heard correctly.

Mona flashed the gold wedding ring on stubby hand. ''owed I get this you mean?''

For a minute Mrs Lovett didn't speak. ''To-by!''

Toby came rushing in.

''Try them things on love.'' Mrs Lovett showed the bundle in the boy's arm. ''An' be quick about it!''

Mona stared at Toby. ''You're on the run from the law, ain't yas?'' Mona looked Mrs Lovett straight in the eye, just as Mr Todd came out from behind the curtains, fully dressed in a ridiculous rich man's suit. And that dangerous look was in his eyes.

Mrs Lovett knew he was probably contemplating how to kill off her friend.

''Can't say I blame yas,'' Mona continued stupidly. ''I was on the run from that awful Judge half me life.'' Fortunately, Mona was a fast talker like Mrs Lovett. That was what probably saved her life.

''The Judge?'' Mr Todd walked between them, the predator suddenly awoken.

''Nellie knows.'' Mona looked up Mr Todd and smiled, taking his sudden interest for friendless instead of murderous intent.

She was always doing that, Mrs Lovett thought.

''When Judge Turpin wants somethin','' Mona continued, ''e makes it 'appen. Nearly 'appened to Nellie too, only she 'ad more brains than me an' got 'erself married quick-smart.''

''What about the Judge?'' Mr Todd was leaning over the counter all-menacin' like.

''Mum? Wot's goin' on?'' A girl emerged from the back of the shop, and Mrs Lovett nearly choked. She was the spitting image of Mona in her youth, the same large, luminous eyes framed within a dark, slender face.

''Nothin' child,'' Mona chided sternly, but Mr Todd and Mrs Lovett had already put two-and-two together. ''Go see to the boy,'' she said to her daughter, ''make sure 'e's fitted right.''

''Yes mum.'' The frightened girl curtsied before disappearing.

''E's her daughter!'' Mrs Lovett blurted out. ''The Judge's daughter!''

''That's right,'' Mona managed with a certain amount of dignity.

Mr Todd looked as if he might kill somebody, or have a stroke. Good thing the Judge is already dead, Mrs Lovett thought, or 'e'd be rushin' out there now with 'is razors.

''Let's make this quick, will we?'' Mona blinked away a few tears. She searched among the shelves. Eventually she found a navy dress and bonnet in Mrs Lovett's size, placing it on the counter. ''You can 'ave it for free. It ain't your colour, but least no one'll recognize ya.''

''Owed you get out of the mad 'ouse then?'' Mrs Lovett was more than astonished. She was impressed. It was common knowledge that in all the years of Bedlam's establishment, only a handful of patients had ever escaped.

''After the Judge 'ad 'is way with me, I found I 'ad the child in me belly. I should've listened to ya Nellie. I went to 'is 'ouse, but 'e refused ta see me. The Beadle chased me off with 'is cane, like I was some street tart. Wot could I do? I lost me job, I 'ad no money. So depressed I was, I wouldn't come out ta eat or wash meself. Landlord 'ad me packed off ta the crazy 'ouse. Turned out that place was a blessin' in disguise. The doctor who cared for me was so good an' kind. Wasn't long before we was in love and 'e 'ad me out of that place an' we was married before the year was out. An' right up til 'is death a year ago, 'e raised Jerusha like she was 'is own daughter.''

Mr Todd had been listening gravely. Now he went to the curtained shop-front window, his back facing them. ''Judge Turpin has paid for his crimes. He won't be troubling you again.'' Mr Todd gave a brief, enigmatic nod, then turned to face the window. ''You have five minutes to dress, Mrs _Todd.''_

Mrs Lovett hoisted the dress and bonnet in her arms to hide her reddening face. Only Mrs Lovett could tell you how much she'd have given to have that title. It always seemed fate was playing cruel tricks on her (Mrs Lovett didn't really believe in God, or if she did, she hadn't said her prayers in a long time). She could be Mr Todd's wife, but only pretend-like, in her dreams, or this little farce in the shop. Never the real thing.

''Nellie, go on off with your day-dreamin' self.'' Mona was looking at her, smiling encouragingly.

Nellie squeezed her friends' hand, and their eyes locked across the counter. ''She's a beauty. Keep 'er safe.''

Five minutes later, Mrs Lovett was dressed in her staid old maid's outfit, ready to join Toby and Mr Todd waiting by the shop front. Not even a stray ringlet escaped the tight confines of her bonnet, and Mr Todd wondered if she would gain a quieter, more subdued personality to match her dress.

''It's good ta know you're alive,'' Mrs Lovett whispered to the Mona. ''Now you two,'' she clamoured, her voice raising five decibels as she shooed her two companions out the door.''Don't stand there waitin' for the century ta close. Make 'aste! We gotta a train ta catch!''

Mrs Lovett raced them out the shop and down the side-street.

_No, _Mr Todd realised. A new and improved personality for Mrs Lovett wasn't likely. Not unless her corpse could be reanimated. _Then,_ he thought wickedly, grinning for the first time since leaving Mrs Lovett's pie shop, at least she wouldn't speak.

_Yes! *Pumps hands in the air* Another chapter done! Now, reviews please? _


	5. A Train Trip to Remember

**~A Train Trip to Remember~**

_Sorry, sorry, sorry for being so late with this update. But I started back at Uni the other week and I had lots of homework. Yeah, I suck at multi-tasking. Should be doing a crappy essay on structuralism, but Mr T is much more fascinating! Hopefully there'll be a little more action and fluff in the next chapter!! Reviews are welcome!_

The shop front of Mrs Lovett's Pie-shop wasn't half so gloomy in the daylight. In fact, from a certain distance, preferably from the other side of the street, it almost looked _charming_ – in a run-down pauper sort of way. Constable Lithgow was standing by the shop-door, staring at the list of names compiled in his note-book. The names of the men who'd been reported missing within the past three months. Men who had all happened to have paid for a shave at Sweeney Todd's Barber-shop.

Lithgow had no doubt in his mind what had happened to those men. Who were those men, he wondered? Some of them may have been scum, he supposed, but some of them would have been decent men. What sort of man thought himself above everything and everyone that he could choose who lived and who died? And what about the woman? Mrs Lovett, obviously from the name on the shop-front. Society had taught him to think all women wereweak or innocent. But Constable Lithgow knew the truth. His kind of work led him to encounter many different sorts of women: women who sold themselves for a pie, women who killed for a pretty necklace. Women who killed for the same reasons as men. But _this _case was different.

Lithgow had never come across anything of this scale of violence – and to think this woman had gone along with that demon barber, or had committed the crimes herself, chilled him. _If I find him, I'll hang him, _Lithgow promised. If Mrs Lovett was guilty, she'd probably hang too.

A sudden wind rattled down the street, a warm, dusty wind from the factories. Lithgow removed the bowler hat from his head, and studied the people passing up and down the streets. Mrs Mooney's pie-shop was doing a rip-roaring trade. It was high time he did some witness interviewing, Lithgow thought.

He wasn't the kind of man you could call pretty, or even handsome, but he had an intriguing face. It was rough and bearded and often hidden beneath the bowler hat, but on the off-times he removed the hat, usually when he was investigating a crime, you could see the strange brown eyes, the same colour as autumn leaves before winter strips them off the trees. The effect of those striking, wary eyes was a face that you could never forget, even if it happened to pass you briefly on the street. Most other men may have used this to their advantage in winning over the fairer sex, but Lithgow was the sort of man who would marry his work before a woman. His odd face led to many jokes from his colleagues: poor Lithgow was too recognisable for any criminal profession, so the man had been forced to choose the police force.

A bell jangled, and behind him the shop-door swung open. A shorter, lithe man with a pronounced moustache stepped out and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. It was Jonathon, his detective partner and one of the most reliable men on the force. Lithgow turned around and saw through the gap in the door. The interior was crowded with men of the law scrounging and scraping for evidence– a number of policemen and detectives. The coroners had been and gone hours earlier to remove the remains from the lower chambers of the shop.

It was mid-afternoon by the time Lithgow forced himself to take a break, and now he was feeling the full effects of what he'd seen in that hell. They still had the barber-shop upstairs to search, but the majority of the evidence had come from the bloody Inferno beneath Mrs Lovett's unassuming floorboards. Constable Lithgow had never been a particularly religious man. Given a choice, he would rather read Darwin's _On the Origin of Species_ over the Bible. The thought of Hell had always been a silly little fairy-tale to him – but the moment he'd walked down into Mrs Lovett's chambers, Lithgow decided that there _was _a hell. It simply existed on earth, beneath that bakery.

"How are you holding up Lithgow?" Jonathon leant against the glass of the door.

Lithgow showed no expression on his face. "No better than you are. We both ate there."

Jonathon didn't answer. What could he say? Almost everyone had eaten at Mrs Lovett's pie shop.

"This'll be a circus once word gets out." Constable Lithgow placed the bowler back on his head, nodded at Jonathon and crossed the street.

Since word had gotten out that Mrs Lovett was now making the best pies in London, and not Mrs Mooney; Mrs Lovett's Pie-shop had been a chaotic hub for rich and poor alike, drawing workers, professional men, families, prostitutes. Everyone in London had come to feast on their fellow men and women alike.

Everyone, of course, except Mrs Mooney.

The baker was busy making another batch of pussy-cat pies when the Constable came into her shop. Despite the competition, Mrs Mooney had somehow managed to keep her own steady business going with a stream of regular costumers. They devoured gossip as much as a weekly meal of pussy-cat pie; and like most other bored, jealous types, liked to speculate the worst about Mrs Lovett's thriving business. Some claimed Mrs Lovett had the fashion sense of a prostitute; others claimed she _was _a prostitute, and Mr Todd was her pimp. Others _swore _that Sweeney Todd was Bluebeard reincarnated, and the upstairs barber shop was where he stashed all his murdered wives.

Still worse was Mrs Mooney's own specially made-up rumour: Mrs Lovett's pies were made from the corpses of orphans and babies. Never in Mrs Mooney's wildest dreams, which weren't very wild, would she have imagined _her _rumour to be the closest to the truth.

"Hullo Constable," she greeted the detective moments after he'd closed the front door with a jangle of the bell. She was abnormally cheerful, even for a Wednesday. Of course, the latest news about Mrs Lovett's pie-shop had more than something to do with that. "How can I serve ye?"

"By providing me with some information as to the whereabouts of Mrs Lovett and Sweeney Todd. You were acquainted with her, am I correct Mrs Mooney?" The Constable Lithgow fixed his odd brown eyes on Mrs Mooney, and the woman went all flushed.

"Don't know what you mean by that sir. I don't 'ide no fugitives in me house. I'm an 'onest woman, I am."

Constable Lithgow raised an eyebrow at the word 'honest.' No doubt he had heard used it many times in the guilty party's defence. "You won't mind if I search the premises then?"

"Be me guest an' search Constable. Ye won't find nothin' of interest. Be back in a tick."

Mrs Mooney rushed into the oven room and removed the fresh batch of pussy-cat pies. Fortunately, she'd thrown out all the cat bones and tidied up a bit that morning. Couldn't have her reputation ruined by some snooping copper. Still, what with Mrs Lovett's business down the shoot, things were looking up. It hadn't always been that way.

Despite Mrs Mooney's best efforts to ruin her enemy's business, Mrs Lovett's Pie-shop had kept thriving. It hadn't mattered how creepy Mrs Lovett's shop had seemed, or how many rumours were spread: people had flocked there in droves. There was a saying in the poor streets of London: "Turn your nose up at a dirty sack and you could miss the jewels stashed inside." Or there was that other famous saying: "Don't judge a book by its cover."

Only in some cases, as it had turned out with Mrs Lovett's pie-shop, some book covers that are filthy, torn and disturbing _really_ _are_ filthy and disturbing on the inside.

"Mrs Mooney." Constable Lithgow was standing behind her. Snuck up as silently as a snake, he did.

"Didn't find the crims 'iding 'ere, did ye?"

The Constable frowned. "No. But I still have a few questions."

Mrs Mooney frowned. He had a way of unnerving people, that copper. She smoothed down her skirts and carried the fresh batch of pies to the counter in the next room. The baker had been fully dressed in her bonnet and dress since the wee hours of the morning, on account of having to skin and gut a fair few pussy cats into meat pies.

"I told everyone that woman was no good," Mrs Mooney repeated for the third time to the Constable. "She was always a stinkin' rotten baker an' suddenly she's rakin' in the pennies. Made me suspect somethin' fishy, it did."

"You claim you told 'everyone', Mrs Mooney, and yet you failed to notify the Police."

"Well, it weren't the sort of thing ye could just blurt out. Specially with that creepy Bluebeard Barber stalkin' the streets, staring peoples down like they was a piece of meat."

"You're speaking of Sweeney Todd?"

"Course I am. That man was evil, I tells ye. But Mrs Lovett never had much luck with the men-folk."

Mrs Mooney, like Mrs Lovett, wasn't your stereotypical image of a baker. She wasn't old and fat and missing all her teeth. In fact, she wasn't unpleasant looking, with a sprinkling of freckles on her nose and a neat sweep of strawberry blonde hair. She often used her open, country-girl face to win over customers. But when it came to talking about something apart from pies and gossip, Mrs Mooney was rather dull, and frequently dim-witted.

Which was why Constable Lithgow was having a hard time getting anything useful out of the woman. "Do you remember seeing anything suspicious?" he asked again.

"Ooh every 'our of tha day! First I'd see them two conspirators, 'im an' 'er walkin' in an' out of that shop – an' just last week I sees that woman drag a body down the stairs of tha Barber's shop and into 'er pie shop."

"Thank you for your help, Mrs Mooney," the Constable finished drily as he exited the shop. It was going to take a lot more than rumours to catch Sweeney Todd. Across the street, he saw Jonathon heading up the stairs to that hellish Barber shop. "Jon," he called.

Jonathon spun round. "Any leads?"

Lithgow shook his head. "All high and dry. We need to expand the search, and quickly. Have your team set up a man-hunt in all the inn-houses and London streets. I'll send another team to the railway stations. They're probably thinking of fleeing London for some remote village."

Jonathon stopped. "Wouldn't it make more sense to lie low, split up and change their identities? I'd think they'd be more noticed trying to flee London. How can you be sure they'd travel so far?"

"Because that's what I'd do." Lithgow tilted his hat to Jonathon, and went into the interior of the shop to organise his team. Time was fleeing, and every second they lost was a second gained for the fugitives.

* * *

"Mr T, what are we gunna do?" Mrs Lovett, hands on hips, looked in dismay at the stationary trains.

Mr Todd was standing some distance away from Mrs Lovett and Toby. He could have been a bachelor for all the distance he had put between them, and not a member of a typical Victorian family.

But he heard her all the same, because Mrs Lovett had the sort of voice that travelled. He remained still for a good many moments, and then turned on the distraught woman's face.

"One: if you wish to live, you will not call me by that name. Find another false-name and _use it_. Unless you want everyone around us to know who we _really_ are."

Mrs Lovett nodded, greedy to have the few morsels of conversation he had thrown at her all day.

"Two," he continued, "we will do exactly what _you_ have suggested _I _do in such situations." He grinned, quickly and nastily, before all emotion fell from his face. "_Wait._"

They were stranded at the train station. And so were the trains.

There'd been mechanical delays with the trains, and it was mid-afternoon by the time the trains were ready to be boarded.

"Train to Exeter departing in ten minutes," shouted a uniformed man from the end of the platform.

"This one'll do," Mrs Lovett cried, and picked up her skirts. "Wait – 'ow'll we board the train? We don't 'ave no tickets!"

It was true. They had money, but Mrs Lovett disliked the idea of wasting any of it unnecessarily. Who knew how long they would be on the run?

"Come on Mr Todd," Toby tried encouragingly, for Mrs Lovett's sake. "You 'ave decent ideas. 'ow do we escape this one?"

Personally, Toby would have liked to push Mr Todd in _front _of the train, not_ help_ an escaped murderer, but Mrs Lovett's forlorn face prevented him from doing anything of the sort.

As it stood, Mr Todd had his back to them, probably wishing they would both disappear.

Mrs Lovett placed a feminine hand on his shoulder. "Mr T? Wot do you think we should do?"

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Ah, now…..what's down there? I believe it's the review button! =D_


	6. Meet Mr and Mrs Stowe

_I can't really make any excuses for my complete and utter slackness other than I've been swamped with homework and I was really hitting a low creative point thinking my writing wasn't up to scratch. Anyway, now that I've got things sorted, I'm going to update every Friday. It would be cruel to leave Mrs Lovett and Mr T stuck at the station all dressed up and nowhere to go.. =)_

**~Meet Mr and Mrs Stowe~**

The station was a-bustle with swarms of travellers and suitcases. It would have helped a great deal if they were tall enough to stand over the crowd, but neither Mrs Lovett nor Mr Todd came from a family of giants. Mrs Lovett didn't mind the crowd. It made her feel safe. She had felt that way even in her own pie shop, serving slabs of cannibal pie to her fellow women and men. Crowds were her business. You could tell a great deal more about the human race when they were crammed together like cattle, Mrs Lovett believed. She liked nothing better to swoop by each table and dissect her customers' behaviour.

Except that one elusive customer. Mrs Lovett liked to call him the _almost _gentleman, because he always hid his face under his hat, and barely addressed her. Aside from _him, _Mrs Lovett knew everyone's name. It pleased her that she could rattle off what they did for a living, who they'd married, the names of their kids, their favourite taverns, whore houses, and how they spent their Sundays. She could sniff out the pickpockets, the gamblers, the drunkards, the happy families, the skirt-chasers, the opium-addicts, the newlyweds, the wife-bashers, the ex-Newgate prisoners, those most likely to hang themselves by Thursday, and last but not least, the husbands who'd come in with their wives one week and came in bachelors the next, on account of having their wives committed at the Bedlam Institute for the Mentally Insane. Charming little ol' world it was, Mrs Lovett reflected fondly.

A sharp whistle screamed for attention. "Attention all passengers," the train officer shouted, "train to Exeter departs in ten minutes!"

Mrs Lovett sighed. Above her, the ceiling was an endless sky full of wrought iron archways and delicate designs. Who would have thought people'd spend so much effort on a station? In her youth, when she'd had time to loiter about, Mrs Lovett would wander past London's richest houses. Those magnificent gardens and balconies with the giant, jutting roofs were always hidden from view behind massive iron gates. Standing under the station's infinite ceiling, Mrs Lovett could almost imagine she was one of them rich dames taking afternoon tea in her garden. "I don't know 'bout you lot, but this is one grand little piece, this place. "ave you any ideas yet love?"

She was still clasping Mr T's shoulder, almost unconscious she was doing so. They were waiting, she and Toby, half-frozen, for a sign that this man held more brain than vegetable matter in his head. "Mr T - " Mrs Lovett covered her mouth as if to stop her mistake.

Mr T inclined his head slightly back, and glared. He roughly shook off her shoulder. "That's not my name," he reminded her.

"Fine," Mrs Lovett sighed, not to be outdone by his childish behaviour. "It'll be_ Mr_ and _Mrs Stowe_ from now on. And this'll be our son, Sebastian Stowe."

"I get it," Toby said, grinning from ear-to-ear. 'Like Stowaways, coz that's wot we is."

"Right you are Sebastian love," Mrs Lovett said humorously, drawing Toby protectively into her chest. Mr T looked fit to whack someone about with his infernal black kettle. Lucky he didn't have it with him, thought Mrs Lovett. For now, at least, for the train ride, she and Toby were safe. Mr T wasn't that far off his rocker he'd try anything deadly in public. "Oi! Love – where you off to then?"

Mr Todd was strolling away casually through the crowd, quite content to lose them. At least, as casually as someone as disturbed looking as Mr T could walk.

"Thinks 'e can dump us after all them months of torture 'e put me through!" Mrs Lovett heaved the small amount of luggage she was carrying under her right arm. It wasn't all that heavy, but Mrs Lovett wanted the world to know exactly what kind of a bother that man was putting her through. She began to stalk after him. "Come along, Toby. Don't dither!"

"Yes Mum! Hold up – " Toby tugged on her arm. They stopped short before the end of the station.

Mrs Lovett stared. "Wot's 'e doing then?"

They were on the fringe of the crowd. Mr T was bent down before a fat little toddler, its eyes and mouth smiling and gurgling. A woman's pink bustle skirt framed the child from behind. It was a well-dressed woman bent over, briefly fiddling with her luggage. The child was sucking a ticket in its mouth. Mr T waved a hand in front of the toddler's chubby face, and in less time than a shave, ripped the ticket from its grasp.

"'e's stealing," Toby exclaimed. "'e's stealing from a babe."

"Love," Mrs Lovett scolded, recovering enough from her surprise to lower the luggage hanging from her right arm, "if that babe is dumb enough to not squeal its 'ead off at the sight of Mr T, it deserves to be stolen from. There isn't no helping the simple."

Mrs Lovett rushed over to Mr T, who had by now carefully extracted himself from the scene of the crime. By the time the Mother realized what had transpired, the said criminal was standing indifferently at the far edge of the station, ready to board the train.

"Mr - " Mrs Lovett caught herself, "Mr _Stowe, _I believe that there ticket is _mine._" After all she had done for him, the little he could do was be a gentleman and offer her first seat.

"Apologies, Mrs Stowe," Mr T whispered none-too apologetically in her ear, "but I believe if a lady can murder, she is most able to find her own ticket." Mr T tipped his hat, showed his ticket to the ticket master, and disappeared onto the train.

Mrs Lovett stepped up eagerly after him, dragging Toby in tow. An impatient ticket master was waiting with a checkboard in his arms. "'scuse me sir, I need to get on, but I seem to 'ave dropped me ticket." Oh drat, Mrs Lovett scolded herself. I forgot all about me accent! I'm done for now!

The ticket master, who hadn't heard Mr Todd and Mrs Lovett's exchange, turned to survey Mrs Lovett and her ragamuffin companion. Mrs Lovett's stately maudlin dress and bonnet was a good deal more respectable looking than her baker clothes, but the train master only needed to hear one snatch of her east London Cockney accent. He wasn't buying it. She was dressed in the appearance of a teacher or governess, but her fidgeting and accent betrayed her. The child looked decent enough, but the smudge of dirt on his cheek destroyed any gentility his little gentleman suit had helped to create. Picking one's nose in public didn't do much for one's prospects either.

"Sebastian!" At last Mrs Lovett caught wind of what Toby was up to, and slapped his hand away. "Stop that!"

Toby blushed, remembering he was supposed to look respectable-like, and assumed a dull, sobre expression.

The train master was a good ten years old than Mrs Lovett, which wasn't that old, but he looked it. He never smoked or drank himself into a stupor like some of the wealthy men who went to the men's clubs, but still, his face looked like a pickled vegetable. His wife joked that all the riff-raff boarding London's trains had given him Methuselah lines and a permanent headache. The train master had about as much affection for his wife as he had for London's riffraff, which meant he didn't have much of a sense of humour left over at the end of the day.

So you can see the ticket master wasn't going to buy Toby's innocent little boy routine. He had seen his share of stowaways in his time, and till this day, he thought he had caught every one.

"I'm deeply sorry Madam," he replied in his best civil voice, "but these are strictly first class carriages. Third class is to be found six carriages down."

"Third class!" Mrs Lovett did her best impression of Mrs Haverish, a wealthy woman who came to Mrs Lovett's Pie Shop under the pretence of reporting the unseemly smell to the police. Everyone knew that she really came to stuff herself with pies until she burst. Mrs Lovett assumed her most regal pose, folded her gloved hands together, and gave her foot a little impatient stamp. "This will not do, no it will not! Were you not heeding my words sir when I _informed _you about the disappearance of my train ticket?" Whatever shall become of me? I demand that you obey my command to reprimand my husband!"

The train master stared. Mrs Lovett had attempted to show off, to the best of her ability, her command of _genteel _language. "I am sorry, madam," the train master replied, wondering if he had encountered a woman with two separate personalities, "but I cannot obey your demand that I command to reprimand your husband, for the simple reason that I cannot understand what you are asking."

"_Sir," _Mrs Lovett repeated, "the man that you recently permitted to board the train was my good husband, Mr Stowe. But a minute ago the ticket which I had purchased fell through the gap 'tween the train and platform and so you will see I am without a ticket with which to board the train. As my husband possesses all our currency, you must _fetch _him quickly so that I may join him and desist from persisting in prolonging the delay."

It was true. There was already quite a delay - by now a large line had gathered behind them. Mrs Lovett wondered if Mr T was watching the exchange behind one of those shiny carriage windows. Bet he was satisified - now he wouldn't have to hear her scolding him every morning and night.

"Really madam," came a cry from behind, "what seems to be the trouble? We have a train to catch!"

You could tell it was a first class line. The third class line, Mrs Lovett thought wickedly, wouldn't have bothered with civilities. They would have just bowled the smug man over, like they did in Mrs Lovett's shop when the work-men came out of the factories hankering for a good solid meal to fill their bellies, and some idiot was holding up the line.

The train master gave Mrs Lovett a tight smile. "The man _whom _I recently permitted to board the train." It was his small joy to correct her poor grammar.

"_What?!" _Mrs Lovett had to _force _that upper class English accent through the corners of her mouth. It was more taxing than lifting two trays laden with pies!

The man kept the patient-smile-of-a-civilized-but-underpaid gentleman plastered on his face. "As an Englishman, Madam, I feel it is my duty to correct you. You said, 'the man _that_ I recently permitted to board the train." The correct usage is "the man _whom_ I recently permitted to board the train." Otherwise, _what _will our great nation come to, if its citizens forget how to speak in the tongue with which they were born?"

"He's off 'is bloomin' rocker," Toby muttered under his breath.

The sharp whistle blew from the end of the station. "Train to Exeter departs in three minutes!"

"I say!" The first class was getting restless. "Hurry it up, for heaven's sake!" You knew they were really getting upset when they started dropping _heaven's sakes _and _heaven helps. _

Mrs Lovett was born a Victorian woman. That meant she_ had_ to be a great deal more patient than Mr T, her husband Albert, and indeed, _any _of the men she encountered. But having less than three minutes to board a train while the law is in hot pursuit is likely to make _any _woman more than a tad annoyed. She took a two steps forward and towered over the man, which wasn't hard, because he was short by anyone's standards. "Listen 'ere you soddin' toffee-nosed over-stuffed peacock-feathered man! You'd better let me on that train, or there'll be trouble!"

"Madam," said the ticket master, chuckling thoroughly, "I don't think it necessary to correct the all too many obvious errors in your sentences. I _do not_ take kindly to threats. Third class is _that way_," he repeated, pointing down the line of the platform.

"'eaven 'elp me you're up for a wallopin' sir!" Mrs Lovett began stripping off her gloves.

"Betta watch out sir," Toby warned. "She's takin' off her gloves!"

Even though the ticket master was too stupid to recognise the danger, Mrs Lovett was in a fierce mood. If it hadn't been for _Mr Stowe's _reappearance, in all likelihood the smug ticket master would have ended up being pushed down the gap between the train and platform.

"_Sir_," came Mr Todd in a low and conspiratorial voice, "There's been some mistake. I believe that is my wife you are insulting."

Mrs Lovett and Toby stared at each other. They never expected Mr T to return. And they never thought he had it in him to give a better upper class accent than Mrs Lovett.

"This – is your wife?" The ticket master never lost the smooth control in his voice. But the moment his eyes connected with Mr Todd, the fear erupted.

"Indeed sir," Mr Todd repeated, stepping down from the train and locking his arm tightly around Mrs Lovett. "I had hoped it would not have to come to this," he continued speaking in a low whisper, "but my wife is unwell."

"Unwell?" This caused the ticket master to dart his eyes back and forth between the couple.

Mr Todd nodded, patting his 'wife's hands sympathetically. "Extremely. I am attempting to take her to Exeter to see a _private doctor_. Bedlam is a last resort. I was hoping to avoid the messy business of a public display. I trust, you too, sir, have a wife."

The ticket master nodded, and for the first in a long while he felt a pang of sympathy for someone else. He knew _all too well _what a messy business wives could be.

"I'M SANE!" Mrs Lovett bellowed, half-acting, half-seriously alarmed. Was Mr T trying to rescue her, or get rid of her?

"Quiet, my pet." Mr T fixed that strange, impenetrable gaze on her, and Mrs Lovett wished he would look at her like that more in private. "It is my fault for not keeping better watch over her. I left her for one minute to attend to our luggage, and I find she has caused all this commotion."

"I see sir," the ticket master replied, bowing his head slightly to avoid Mrs Lovett's violent stare, "that I have acted erroneously. The lady told me she had dropped her tickets, and I did not believe her. I had no idea of her condition. My deepest apologies to you and your wife."

Mr Todd inclined his head, and guided Mrs Lovett up the steps. Toby followed close on their heels. One of the train guards led them to their carriage. Once they were safely esconced between the curtained window and the locked door of the carriage, Mr T seized Mrs Lovett by the arm. "Mark my words, _Mrs Stowe_. Pull one more stunt like that, and you won't see Exeter. I'll cut your throat in your sleep."

For once, words failed Mrs Lovett. She was too shocked to register the threat. He had come back for them. When she had been so sure he would desert them, he had come back. Mrs Lovett wasn't the praying sort of woman, but she sent up a quick prayer anyway. As the train pulled away from the platform, and the blaring sound of the train whistle cut out all human voices, Mrs Lovett peeped through the curtain window, and whispered: "Let it all come good at Exeter. Let it all come good!"

_At last, they've left London! Hurrah! ^_^ _


	7. Exeter!

_**Ok ok so I'm a day late updating. But it's worth it, I promise! I probably like this chapter best so far, because it has some romance for Mrs Lovett. =D Thanks again to the wonderful reviewers and readers. I wouldn't have the same inspiration to write if it weren't for you!**_

_**Just to avoid any confusion: I've switched back and forth between Mrs Lovett and Mr T's POV and they're reflecting on what happened to them during the day. **_

**Exeter!**

It was a dark, cold night the train to Exeter sped through. Its passengers slept soundlessly in their carriages, and noticed nothing of the unhappy wind that clattered against the train windows. All except one passenger.

Sweeney Todd had thought after boarding the train, and seeing the green woods and bare countryside pass him by, he might at last have a night of restful sleep. Now that he was out of that stinking city and Mrs Lovett's shop where every wall and piece of floor reminded him of a baby's cap or the torn fabric from his wife's old dress – now that he was out of that, couldn't he forget?

Sweeney had tried. He'd stared endlessly out at the blurry flashes of green as they'd passed. He'd tried to imagine the happy lives other people must live as the train had stopped at each of the nameless towns, and tried to imagine a happy life for himself. But with the boy always eyeing him and Mrs Lovett's ceaseless chatter in his ear, begging for them to go out and explore for five little minutes or so before the train took off – it was impossible!

And then there were the irritating passengers themselves, who were, quite possibly, even _more _irritating than Mrs Lovett herself.

* * *

_**Earlier that Afternoon**_

The first knock on their compartment door came exactly fifteen minutes after the train had left London station and all the passengers were comfortably seated in their private quarters.

"I'll get it!" Mrs Lovett rushed, by force of habit, to get the door.

"Sit down, _Mrs Stowe," _said Mr Todd dangerously.

Mrs Lovett fell back in her seat.

"Let _the boy _answer it."

Toby got up, and swallowed nervously as those two hellish eyes burnt through him. "What if it's _the filth_?" Toby had visions of screaming to the waiting cops in the corridor: "there 'e is! There's the bleedin' murderer!" But then how would he explain his Mum's business in all this, and why they were all on the run together?

_No_, Toby decided cautiously, he was going to have to wait. After all, if he had learnt anything from Mr Todd, it was that waiting a long time brought bloody rewards.

Toby opened the door a crack, enough to poke his head through. "Yes, sir?"

A gentleman and his wife stood hesitantly in the corridor. The wife had her arm wrapped tightly around her husbands', as if she were afraid that something behind that door was going to launch itself at her. "Ah," the heavily moustached man began, "am I to gather that you are the child of Mr and Mrs Stowe?"

Toby tried to control the anger in his face. He wanted to kick the well-dressed man in the shins, or steal his cane, but he did neither. All his time working for Senor Pirelli had trained him in the Art of Control in Extremely Trying Situations. He could feel Mr Todd's burning eyes on his back, and didn't doubt for a second that Todd could beat him as hard, if not _harder _than Pirelli had. "That is correct, _sir_," Toby answered, remembering he was meant to be educated. Best not to arouse any suspicions, Toby thought. He bowed low before the wealthy pair.

"I came only for my wife's sake," the gentleman began, by way of explanation, "for you see _she_ was extremely distressed by this afternoon's event."

_Sticks_, Toby thought. This rich people will throw us out! We've blown it again!

Without warning, Mr Todd appeared behind him in the doorway. Even with his new suit and reasonable hair-cut, the husband and wife visibly blanched at the sight of him. There was no easy of erasing fifteen years of brooding and torment. "May I help you, sir and Madam?"

Under Mr Todd's unyielding stare, the couple began to look increasingly uncomfortable. "My wife," the man faltered, "my wife was…"

" – distressed, Henry," the woman finished for him.

"Yes," the man appeared to be turning red. "We are sorry for your wife's condition, Mr Stowe, but we, ah, could not help feeling concerned. Your wife is _safe, _is she not?"

Toby could see the frown spreading across Mr Todd's face. But the immense spread of Mr Todd's demonic thoughts lay hidden_ beneath_ that controlled distaste. He was probably thinking of how to rip their heads off, Toby guessed, and marvelled at Mr Todd's self-control. "If you are trying to determine whether my wife is a danger to the safety of the passengers on this train, I assure you, she _is not_. She is unwell, for private reasons which I choose not to disclose, and will remain in _my_ custody, within the confines of our compartment, for the duration of the trip. Does that satisfy your curiosity?"

"Well, I," the husband began. Neither the man nor his wife looked particularly comforted, but they found themselves powerless under Sweeney Todd's gaze, and mumbled a "yes" and "thankyou" and "good day," before retreating down the corridor.

Mr Todd slammed the compartment door.

But it was not the end of the disturbances. All afternoon, people bustled down the corridor of the carriage where Mr and Mrs Stowe were located. Some came to Mr Stowe concerned that Mrs Stowe would go on a mad rampage through the train. Some came out of concern for Mrs Stowe, on account of the ticket master's abusive behaviour. Some of them wanted Mrs Stowe thrown off the train at the next station. Others wanted the _ticket master _thrown off the train at the next station. In the end the ruckus only ceased when evening came and travel between carriages was limited by the train guards.

At last, Mr Todd thought, I can get some rest.

* * *

_**Evening**_

The whole train was sleeping now, but the lull of dark night sweeping past did nothing to ease him into sleep. Mr Todd was thinking of his dead wife, as he often did in the hours of darkness when there was nobody to distract him from himself. Was her ghost out there now, wandering about in the bleak countryside? He could imagine, if he stared long enough, a white figure with blonde hair dancing in a moorish light beyond the window. The strange light seemed to have come out of nowhere, Mr Todd thought.

Actually, the light was the headlight of the train as it bore around a sloping curve. The light reflected on the end of the train, and that was what Mr Todd had imagined was his wife dancing in the black landscape.

Hours later, when the darkness of night had lessened, the train ran around a sharp corner.

Mrs Lovett jerked awake. She turned either side of her, realising where she was. She'd been dreaming she was back in London again, cooking pies. It was a horrid dream, and Mrs Lovett was glad to shake it off. Toby was curled up on her right side, closest the door. His back was curved against the seat, and his head was buried as far as it would into his thin body. Across from them, on the opposite seat, sat Mr Todd. He only took up a third of the seat, but Mr Todd had insisted on having no company near him. His whole body was inclined toward the darkness outside, and he rested now, completely still, but not asleep. He was staring out into the night, as if his staring might make the window break and bring whatever it was he desired alive and back to him.

Mrs Lovett pretended she was asleep by remaining as still as she could. Her left arm rested on her lap, and her right elbow rested on her left arm. Her head was sitting propped up on her right palm attached to the arm and elbow, and Mrs Lovett couldn't help thinking Mr Todd wouldn't have noticed any different if she'd been a statue, or worse, a woman with her head cut off like those poor criminals who'd used to have their heads impaled on large stakes atop of London Bridge. Was there no way to reach him, she found herself wondering?

Mrs Lovett found no immediate answer to that one. It was her eternal question, just as a priest in his darkest hour might question God's existence.

And this was Mrs Lovett's darkest hour.

She could hear the rattle of the train underneath her and around her. All around her was complete darkness, and apart from the train's rattle, silence. It was frightening for her, for a woman who'd never left London city, or travelled more than a few days away from her pie shop in twenty years. Terrible things had happened on that street, of course, long before Sweeney Todd had come along, but they were _familiar _terrible things. She knew, for example, the almost homely sound of Mrs Mooney strangling a cat outside the alleyway of her pie shop at five o' clock in the morning. She knew the smell of the neighbour's toilet being hurled in the street below her. She knew the thick, choking fog that hung over London's sky for most days. Mrs Lovett knew the sound of the workers trooping home from work in the wet, muddy streets. The sound of Charlie's girls working on the corner would wake her at two or three every night. And all through the nights, somewhere in the city, the lights always burned. London never slept.

Which was why Mrs Lovett was wondering if _she _could ever sleep properly again, being so far from home. So many things seemed strange now, only hours away from the roaring giant city. When she'd had the Mr T sleeping in the room across from her, Mrs Lovett had never questioned it. Albert had been dead so long and Mrs Lovett had been lonely so long she never thought to look a gift horse in the mouth. Time will make him come around, Mrs Lovett promised herself. But after months of waiting, Mr Todd's hatred had only _increased _towards her. Aside from the odd moment when she thought of some genius way to help him, Mr Todd's only kindness to her was well-worn contempt, or total indifference. Mrs Lovett couldn't decide which she hated more.

So now, she found herself asking: was there any point? Should she go on loving him? Should she go on trying, when he only seemed to consider her a burden? Maybe, Mrs Lovett thought, I should just be smart an' take Toby and me away from this stinkin' mess. We'll find ourselves a quiet little cottage, poor but respectable-like, and make ourselves a new life. Then I won't wake up seeing Mr T's face wondering if 'e'll ever look at me the way 'e looked at Lucy.

* * *

_**Earlier in the Afternoon**_

He'd been atrocious to her that afternoon. But they weren't _truly _married, and that meant he didn't have the right to boss her about! He'd made her sit by the train window with the matron's bonnet cover her whole face – for three hours without so much as a move! Sure, there was pretty enough countryside to be staring at, but after a while even _that _bored her. Did he know what effort and concentration Mrs Lovett had required to sit there still as a mouse, while beyond the compartment she could hear such a commotion? _Everyone_, even Mr T, was talking, and she was forced to pretend to be his mad, stupid wife.

But she stayed. She wanted to _prove _to Mr T, that she could be silent as he, if she chose. Mrs Lovett knew he thought she was a shallow, flitting creature from the way his eyes looked at her whenever she launched herself into a new topic of conversation. But he didn't understand that most of what she said spilled out from nerves, and not shallowness. I don't think even Mrs Lovett knew _just _how misplaced she felt around him sometimes. She didn't know the way to reach him, _but for _talking his leg off.

So, you may imagine, that after three hours of sitting and not hearing a word from anyone, Mrs Lovett got up from her post and stormed to the door. There was another reason for her anger, as she undid the enormous bonnet that choked around her chin. She had not had a chance for a toilet since the early hours of the morning, since they'd first fled the Pie shop. Mrs Lovett _had _to leave their compartment. It was not a matter of choice!

Just as she began to turn the knob and slip out, Mr Todd yanked the door open and stood over. "Put the bonnet back on," he ordered. Mrs Lovett looked past him, wondering where Toby and all the people had got to. When she didn't move, he pulled the bonnet back on firmly around her head.

"It don't matter much, they already _know_ what I look like Mr T." Mrs Lovett realised from Mr Todd's darkening face, that she had slipped up again. "I mean _Mr Stowe," _she corrected herself finally.

"I told you _not to move_."

"Look 'ere," Mrs Lovett said, not caring to put on her accent. "If I _don't_ go outside_, _I'm gonna go _in here_," she said, jabbing her finger at the ground, "and it won't be pretty. The stench'll be so strong I'd say even Mr Pirelli wouldn't have dare used it for his Miracle Elixir, catch my drift?"

"Caught it," Mr Todd said, suddenly both amused and worn out by this forceful little woman. "You 'ave three minutes, before more of London's lunatics come bothering us."

As soon as Mr T was out of her sight, Mrs Lovett felt a sudden heaviness lifted off her. It was the first time she had been truly alone for a long time, she thought, stepping carefully out into the narrow corridor in her thick dress. It wasn't hard to locate the Lavatory, considering theirs was the last carriage, and Mrs Lovett had reached the end of the corridor. She found the word _Lavatory _printed in gold across the last door on the right hand side, and above it, the word _Lady. _Mrs Lovett double-checked down the corridor to see if she were being followed. Satisfied, she ducked into the lavatory, and locked it.

After relieving herself, Mrs Lovett spent long minutes staring into that beautifully carved mirror, watching her own drawn, tired face beneath the huge bonnet. Her eyes stood out like large, over-the-top lanterns, both comic and tragic. Mrs Lovett knew this, because her childhood nickname was Nellie the Clown, for her sad, jester face. When she'd first met Albert, he'd thought she was Greek, even though he'd never met a Greek woman in his life. "It was on account of those paintings in Mr Connor's antique shop," he'd explained, "you reminds me of them sad women bending over the wells in them ancient robes, begging for their lovers to come back from the dead."

And before that, when she was just nineteen and bustling about in the front window of the clothes shop, Judge Turpin had come in and taken her aside: "Dear Lady," he'd said, "you could be Helen of Troy, arisen from the dead."

Mrs Lovett hadn't had the chance to read any mythology to know Helen of Troy had been "the most beautiful woman in the world," but even if she had known, she wouldn't have believed it. At home, she'd never spent much time staring at herself, even when she'd had the time in those long mornings and evenings after work. It brought bad luck, she'd told herself, staring into something that could steal your soul. And it never made her happy either, always thinking on why she hadn't be born looking like Mona, or when she met Mr T, like Lucy. "You'll be the death of me," she cursed, wondering briefly whether she was talking about the mirror or Mr T.

She stepped out of the lavatory rather quickly, eager to get away from the spell of the mirror. And stumbled right into the man coming out of the male lavatory across from her.

"Watch where you're going," Mrs Lovett scolded lightly. She knew it was her fault, but Mrs Lovett wasn't in the mood to admit she was wrong after all the mistakes she had made that day.

"Ordinarily, Madam," said the man as he regained his balance, "I might bow and extend my greatest sorrow and shame for causing a woman such as yourself any pain. In this particular case, I saw clearly as the sun rises that it was _you _who barrelled into me, and not vice-versa. Therefore, it is from _you_ I require an apology."

Mrs Lovett stared. She'd expected the man to apologise and move on. Not this loony-bin. It seemed Mrs Lovett had a knack for attracting mad hatters. He was probably handsome, underneath the unkempt beard and long hair that hid his dark skin. He was scruffily dressed, in strange, loose pants, a maroon coat at least thirty years out of fashion. A strange mustard-yellow hat adorned his dark head. From what she could see of him underneath the clothes, Mrs Lovett thought he was a Bohemian, a foreigner, or mad. Or, even more likely, she thought, a bit of all three.

"Deepest apologies," Mrs Lovett said, giving a sardonic curtsey, "but I'm not in the habit of apologisin' to fruit-cakes on the loose from Bedlam."

The man grinned, immediately gathering her joke. At least he's not mentally challenged, Mrs Lovett thought.

He grinned. "I doubt, since I am not English born, that your government would bother taking me to Bedlam. Throwing me from a moving train would be a more inexpensive option."

"Let me know if you need a hand in the throwing." Mrs Lovett adjusted the bonnet self-consciously. She wished he could see beneath it.

"Are you a widow?" he asked suddenly.

"Could have fooled me," Mrs Lovett frowned. "Usually it's Londoners who make marriage proposals within a minute of meetin' a woman."

The man fixed Mrs Lovett with a closed smile. "I mean you no harm. I am an artist, as you may have guessed from my attire, therefore it's my nature to notice people. When I look at you, I notice your clothes, and forgive me for saying – but you have a sad face. That is why I think you are a widow."

Mrs Lovett returned the smile. "Most people wouldn't describe me sad. They're too busy tryin' to catch up with wot I'm saying. But yes, you are right. I am a widow. But not _lately _widowed. My husband's been gone seven years this winter."

"I suppose," the man continued, bolder now, "no one has noticed that you are beautiful, either?"

Mrs Lovett found herself blushing, as if he had seen her talking to herself in the toilet mirror. "We're all dead flowers by winter's end, love," but the smile hadn't entirely disappeared from her face.

"Then we should live in spring," the man answered. He kept shifting his weight from right to left foot, but his eyes never left her face. "May I be bold enough to ask for a name?"

Mrs Lovett glanced down the end of the corridor, wondering if Mr Todd had caught her talking to the stranger. Mrs Lovett shook her head. Wearing a staid dress and bonnet suddenly made her feel as if she were a nun, and she could no longer walk and laugh and chatter like Nellie Lovett ordinarily did. "No," she answered briefly. "I mean, it's not _proper._"

Mrs Lovett smiled despite herself. She had heard well-to-do ladies drive past her shop in their carriages and comment loudly on how _improper _her business was. Well, now she had a chance to show them up with their own words.

"But still you smile," said the man, standing quite still now despite the jerky rattle of the train. Mrs Lovett had to hold onto the rail on the door. "Since propriety forbids us, I will not tell you my name either."

Mrs Lovett said nothing. If she had been one of those easily offended "ladies", she might have run from the man's forward behaviour, or more drastically, called the train guard to escort him off the train. But Mrs Lovett's life for seven years had been a life of trying to hold back a flood. She had trained herself to learn to live without. No one she knew wanted to remarry a widowed woman, and so Mrs Lovett had learned to get used to living alone.

It hadn't been so hard at first. Her life hadn't changed much when Albert had died, because she hadn't desired him the way she desired Benjamin Barker. But when Mr Todd came back, after all those years, it became harder every day to remind herself she _should _live alone. His room lay just across from hers. It amazed her to think she'd lived so long on earth without every really _loving _someone. Since the moment Mrs Lovett desired Sweeney Todd, she knew the fortress she'd created for herself was caving in. Day by day, it was only a matter of time before the gates hurled open, and the flood rolled in.

"I believe you like games." The man was still staring at her. The beard and long hair somehow hid part of himself from her, the way the bonnet hid part of Mrs Lovett.

Mrs Lovett blinked. ""ow can you know wot a strange woman likes?"

"You haven't run away yet."

"No, I haven't." Mrs Lovett was standing at the edge of the fortress gate, about to let the flood come crashing in.

"You're not a governess," the man guessed, "though your clothes seemed to say you are. Your accent is all wrong."

"Want to know wot I am?" Mrs Lovett remained standing where she was. She lowered her voice to a deliberately inviting whisper.

He stepped forward, as if to hear her better. Unlike Mr Todd, it was not difficult to read what this man was thinking. "Yes."

"I'm an artist's model."

The man laughed. "So that's why you dress as a widow! The perfect disguise!"

Mrs Lovett doubted he really believed her, but her answer made both of them smile.

"Is there way I might entice you to model for _me? _Painting _women_ is far more interesting than still lifes or landscapes."

Mrs Lovett shook her head. "Impossible. All clients o' mine 'ave to be approved by me manager. An I don't know you one bit." But it was only pretend offense, because Mrs Lovett stayed exactly where she stood. And her words, though light and jolly, meant nothing compared to the desire that seeped out of her face.

It wasn't love. Not the kind of love she had for Mr Todd. Not the kind of wasteful, mournful love she spent empty nights crying into her pillow over. It was simple, human lust. To be desired by another person, and feel the same desire in return. Mrs Lovett was thinking at that moment that sometimes desire was _better _than love.

"If I cannot ask for your name, or what you do," said the man, stepping forward just as the train lurched around the corner. He held onto the rail of the lady's lavatory, so that they were standing directly beside each other, while remaining hidden from anyone who might have peered down the corridor. "If we are just to be two strangers," he continued, "and nothing more, what might be the harm in a simple greeting?"

Mrs Lovett nodded, unable to speak.

"A friendly kiss, from one stranger to another?" The man was standing over her now, waiting for her to answer.

At last Nellie met his gaze directly, and nodded.

"One stranger to another," she whispered. She was so nervous she couldn't think of anything clever to say this time. It had been so long since someone had stood so close to her, had taken all her space away. Mrs Lovett half-expected him to kiss her on the cheek, but there was nothing friendly in what he did.

Unlike the stranger's words, his chin and mouth were rough, and Mrs Lovett almost forgot to return his kiss. There was restlessness, and urgency between them. They were telling each other what they could not have said in words. What they could speak to no one else. It held all - everything intense, and strange, and unspoken. Everything Mrs Lovett had imagined could be between her and Mr T. She did not fight this stranger. For a time they became an extension of each other, one stranger a part of the other.

As awkwardly as it had begun, Mrs Lovett was disappointed when the kiss ended. He smiled knowingly as they broke from each other. He did not touch her again.

Their eyes held once more before he disappeared down the corridor, and left her standing by the lady's lavatory.

Mrs Lovett could not smile. She was smiling inside, but the muscles would not register on her face. She didn't mind if anyone, even Mr T, discovered her at that moment. She still felt the stranger's gift on her lips, but more than that, it was a feeling that infused her completely. In the dark rattling corridor, Mrs Lovett had discovered the world that she could before only envy. Now, she thought without even a hint of envy, I know what Mr Todd must feel when he thinks of Lucy.

* * *

_**Evening**_

In the darkness of the compartment, with Toby at her side, and Mr T brooding across from her, Mrs Lovett _still _could not sleep. She was fully awake, dreaming of the stranger bending over her in the prelude to their kiss. She hadn't known that was how it could be. Was that how it could be, if Mr T could be made to forget Lucy, even for a minute?

"Mr T," Mrs Lovett whispered across the seat. She knew he could hear her, because his lip twitched briefly. "Mr T, are you awake?" But he did not turn away from the window.

Mrs Lovett decided to wait. Mr Todd might have waited fifteen years to slaughter the Judge, but _she _had waited her life to be loved. He, at least, had known a brief taste of love.

And Mrs Lovett waited, until the colours of the night became less intense, and lifted slightly. The blackness ebbed away, replaced by deep inky grey that foretold a day of cloud and rain. She had been too afraid before, to get up, in case he was not asleep. But now, in the little hints of light that spilled over his face in the shadows, Mrs Lovett could see that Mr Todd was truly asleep. She had never seen him asleep.

He did not look _sweet._ No one could ever describe him as such. But he _did _look less like Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, and more like Benjamin Barker. Maybe he's most happy there, Mrs Lovett thought, in his sleep. No one could see the sad depths of those eyes now.

Mrs Lovett made her choice. She stole quietly from her seat, while the train still ran along a straight bend. She sat beside him gingerly, as if she were treading on Lucy's ghost somehow. Briefly, the memory of her shoving Lucy's body into the oven flashed in her head, but Mrs Lovett shook it away. She leant over his still, unsuspecting form, and placed her lips gently over his mouth. It was just the same as hugging a stranger, Mrs Lovett decided, because there was nothing in the kiss. It could only _mean _something if Mr T returned it.

Still, it was something. It was her gift to Benjamin Barker.

Mrs Lovett returned to her seat, and waited for her sleeping companions to stir.

* * *

Phew! My longest chapter so far! Hope you liked it. However, I am not adverse to flames. =)


	8. Too Close for Comfort

_**A/N: **OK so I like updating on Saturdays more than Fridays. But either way you guys'll get update at the end of each week, unless something catastrophic happens and Mr T shows up in the middle of the night and removes my brain. O_o Don't know where that came from. Anyway, the police are trying (unsucessfully) to track down Mr and Mrs Lovett, while something rather embarrassing happens to Mrs Lovett on the train. Enjoy! Oh, and the mysterious stranger will be making an appearance down the track in further chapters!_

**~TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT~**

Constable Lithgow stared down at the drawing of Mrs Lovett. Then he looked up again at the back of the red-haired woman crossing the end of the street. "Could that be the women?"

"God damn!" Jonathon wiped at his sharp moustache. He rarely swore, and when he let loose a couple of Jesus Christ's you knew he had lost his temper. They'd probably looked at every prostitute in London by now!

"Will you let it go Lithgow? The woman's probably half-way to Manchester by now!"

They had been searching for hours in the cold, and had found no trace of the criminal. While the other policemen were off drinking themselves insensible in the local pubs, Constable Lithgow was working. He never stopped. Even when he slept, his mind ticked over. Jonathon was the only man on the force who understood the Itch. That's why he and Lithgow were such a strong team. It wasn't just an itch to catch the criminal and solve the crime. It was an itch to annihilate crime altogether….to get rid of the blood that stained London's every street corner. Only by 2 am Jonathon had about as much stamina as an asthmatic horse, and was ready to drop dead from exhaustion.

Lithgow grabbed his arm. "What if she's not? What if she's still here in London, hiding somewhere?"

Jonathon yawned. "We've been staring at the same face for hours. I'm not sure of anything but a nice soup and a warm bed."

The street lamps cast a flickering light over the two men, and the sheet of paper they were holding between them. It was a strange sight: a pair of men staring at a woman's face on paper in the middle of London's main street. "Wot do yers want with a woman's pitcha," a drunken man commented in passing, "when at this 'our there's plenty of one time looker's to be had!" By "one time lookers", he meant hookers.

It was near eleven o clock. The street lamps were burning, and across the street, uniformed police were doing their rounds of the city. The usual drunkards were causing havoc for the local Londoners, throwing stones at each other and at the windows of the houses above them. They got as far as the end of the street Lithgow when two of the uniformed policemen ran towards them with batons and chased them off.

Jonathon laughed. "They're going to have sore arses in the morning."

As Jonathon turned to get a better view of the drunkards, the wind fluttered the drawing, and he lost his grip on the paper. Lithgow made a grab for it, but the wind was sharper, and carried the paper far along the street and out of sight.

"Jon you fool!" Lithgow tore after the paper, but there was no saving it. It was already halfway up to heaven. And every hour wasted in the investigation meant another hour the murderers got away!

"Look man," said Jonathon firmly, thoroughly out of sorts, "you may wish to spend half the night freezing your nether regions off in the search for some low-life murderer and murderess, but _I _intend to get some sleep. We've an early start tomorrow, don't forget!" Jonathon patted him on the back, and disappeared across the street. It was a forty-five minute work until he reached home. He'd be lucky if his wifedidn't kill him, coming home at 2:30!

The Constable sighed as he watched his friend disappear down the street. He didn't try to detain him. It had been a long day, and he'd pushed Jonathon to his limits. Not many people had the stamina Lithgow had. After the morning's discovery of the horrors in Mrs Lovett's shop, he'd spent the day interviewing witnesses. He'd divided the rest of his team between Mrs Lovett's pie shop and the streets of London. He'd had his men check carriages, coaches and of course, train stations. But what a task! You could spend years searching for fugitives in London's dirty maze of tucked away inn houses and damp cellars. There were enough desperate poor willing to house criminals in exchange for money. And what if, as Jonathon had suggested, the murderers had already fled to another city? It would be impossible to know where they went, until he'd developed a further character profile. The only way, it seemed, of capturing them, was to put out an enormous reward. _That _would certainly motivate people.

Right now, as he stood on the corner, Constable Lithgow was tired. He wondered himself what he was hoping to find at this hour. Lithgow recalled the lengthy two hours he and Jonathon had spent in the artist's cramped studio.

* * *

During their lunch break, the Head Commissioner had sent them to obtain portraits of the criminals, if possible. After talking to Mrs Mooney, they'd gone to a local artist, a man, who it turned out, lived just across the street from Mrs Lovett, in a dingy little upstairs studio. It was covered, the walls and floors, with sketches of the same woman. Whatever this woman was, the Constable decided, whatever she had done, seemed to seep through in this man's pictures. You couldn't stop staring at them.

Constable Lithgow picked up one of the drawings.. "Are you sure that's the women?"

The artist nodded. "My drawings are always thorough, sir."

Lithgow bent over to see the drawing better. "But you've seen her with your own eyes?"

"Every day." The artist was a blonde, clean-shaven man. He had a practical, uncluttered air about him, the kind of manner a scientist has towards their studies. He'd seen nothing of the murders, but he _had_ seen Mrs Lovett, quite often. She used to come outside her pie shop for a breath of fresh air during early morning and dusk. Being an artist, he noticed pretty women, young or old. He'd _had_ to sketch her immediately, he'd told the Constable, from the first moment he saw her. It had turned into his little obsession; sketching Mrs Lovett. He didn't have to pay for a model that way. In the month leading up to the discovery of Sweeney Todd's murders, the artist had made up fifty odd or so sketches of Mrs Lovett. Some of the pictures were strangely intense and disturbing in their honesty, but most of them turned out to be pretty good likenesses.

So Lithgow and Jonathon had taken the pictures to show all the locals, including Mrs Mooney. They had all verified that the drawings were the spitting image of Mrs Lovett.

In the end, they'd chosen the least confronting of the sketches. It was a simple head sketch of Mrs Lovett. If you looked beyond the frizzy mass of curls, and shadows under her eyes, and the general mournful appearance, she was a quite beautiful woman, Constable Lithgow decided. She wasn't the sort that most men would go after, he decided, but if you'd passed her in the street, she wasn't the sort of face you could easily forget. That was what he was pinning their investigation on, the Constable realised. Mrs's Lovett's face. The artists had been aware of the barber living with Mrs Lovett, but had never sketched him.

"He never came outside," the artist said. "And if he did, he never lingered. It seemed to me, that he could _tell _when someone was watching him. Is that possible?"

The three of them were looking down at Mrs Lovett's deserted Pie Shop. They wondered briefly at the horrors that had gone on there, and shuddered. Lithgow, in particular, wondered, what had made this woman participate in such violent crimes? Or was she as vile and corrupt as Sweeney Todd?

"Undoubtedly, that is possible," Lithgow answered. From what he'd heard from Mrs Mooney and the others, they wouldn't need a sketch of Sweeney Todd. Those who had seen him, they said, never forgot him.

Then he and Jonathon left.

* * *

Sweeny Todd didn't know how he knew, but he _knew _if he was being followed. Or if someone was watching him. Call it fifteen years of convict living, but he knew. That was how he knew, right at that moment, that the train was being stopped for a reason. He woke up silently, and saw the grey dawn firmly imprinted on the still landscape outside. The train had stopped. Across from him, Mrs Lovett was snoring, the bonnet draped carelessly over half her head. Beside her, the boy was curled up like a cat. "Boy!" Still seated, Sweeney prodded him with the end of his cane. He wondered how he had gone all his life without one. "Wake up boy!"

Mr Todd was deadly firm without ever raising his voice, and Toby stirred awake. "Wot?" Toby was alert now, watching him distrustfully.

"Wake Mrs Lovett!" For some reason, unknown to himself, Sweeney Todd didn't want to go anywhere near her just now. Even _more _than usual.

The boy snorted. "Do it yourself!"

"I'm warning you!' Mr Todd tapped the cane dangerously. Then, he added, darting his gaze to the locked compartment door, "there's danger!"

Toby nodded wordlessly. He didn't care a dot about Mr Todd's safety, but if his mum's life were in danger….welll, there was no thinking on it! "Mum!" Toby hissed and pulled up Mrs Lovett's bonnet. "Mum, wake up! Quick!"

"Wot?" Mrs Lovett was still half-asleep, and mumbled to herself. "Ain't no pies left in the oven….go away you greedy grub! Toby, I said there's no food until all the customers are stuffed!"

Toby shuddered at her words. It made him remember all the poor people who had died to go into those pies. "Mum!" He half-shouted.

"Go away love," Mrs Lovett said, and began snoring again, teetering forward on the edge of the seat.

Mr Todd warned him off. There was only one thing that could wake up this sleeping woman. He lifted his cane, and jabbed her in the stomach.

"WOT!" Mrs Lovett woke with a start and lurched forward. She couldn't balance herself, and landed face forward in Mr Todd's lap. It wasn't pretty, not for Mrs Lovett, nor for Mr Todd. When you had spent the best part of six months doing your best to either tip-toe around (Mrs Lovett) or completely _avoid _(Mr Todd) the other person – it was just slightly uncomfortable.

For the first five seconds, both of them were too shocked to say anything. Then, Mr Todd's brow furrowed instinctively, and he said lowly, not wanting to touch her, "Get off."

In most cases, the woman's reaction would be to scream and carry on and generally be completely embarrassed and distressed. Not so Mrs Lovett. She wanted to all of those things, and was truly completely embarrassed (not so much distressed) but she was so stunned she couldn't say anything at first. She tried using her arms to grip onto the bare seat to push herself up, but she found only air. And her dress, being one of those giant, crinoline hoops, prevented her from pushing herself back. "I'm stuck!" came her muffled cry. Oh god, she thought, Mr T's gonna skin me alive for this one!

Mr T, more furious than ever, pushed her back and quickly stood up.

Mrs Lovett turned darker than a betroot. She grabbed his hand suddenly, and then dropped it, as it were hot coals. "Oh 'eavens love it weren't my fault! You woke me so sudden I lost me balance and I didn't know it was gonna happen and I swear I didn't feel anything…I mean, wot I mean is, I was trying not to pay attention…and…" A dozen thoughts were running through her head. She couldn't catch them all, only that small little memory of one night when she'd been tiptoeing off to bed and spied on Mr T in his room, the door ajar. He was sitting at his desk with his back to her, writing something in a diary. It had looked so normal, so intimate, she'd been tempted to sneak in there and put her arms around his shoulders, and kiss the back of his neck. Mrs Lovett shook her head and tried to concentrate on the seat covers, the carpeted floor, Mr T's boots....anything to get those images out of her head.

"This _never happened_ Mrs Lovett," Mr Todd said, turning quickly away from her. He was angry and disgusted and something else he couldn't describe. He didn't think he would ever be able to _look_ at Mrs Lovett again (not that he did much of that in the first place) and was just thinking how to get rid of her -

"Police!" Came the shout down the corridor.

Mrs Lovett, still sitting on the floor, fixed her askew bonnet. The blush that had spread across her face was gone.

Toby went to the door, unlocked it, and peeped outside. "Quick! It's the filth! Wot do we do?"

* * *

Back in London, the streets were quietening down. The worst of the drunken revellers had been escorted home by police, and London's infamous gangs were sleeping off a night of assault and terror in Newgate Prison. It was just the passed out drunks, the whores, and Lithgow left on the streets.

Lithgow must have nodded off from exhaustion, because he woke up with a start on the street corner, his arms resting awkwardly across his knees. He felt stiff, and the ends of his fingers were numb. How long had he been asleep? At first he panicked, thinking he had missed the early morning briefing. But then he looked up and saw the dark grey of night sky still out, and the street lamps still spluttering.

And then he noticed her. The women in a cheap scarf and cotton dress. Thin, white sleeves. It wasn't hard. She was one of them. The women, who on most occasions, Lithgow did his best to avoid. She was standing across from him, just watching him. She probably thought he was just another drunk sleeping off the night in the gutter, and was thinking to earn some money off him. Well, Lithgow thought with a bitter twist of his mouth, won't she be surprised to know I'm not just another dumb drunkard?

He stood up, and slowly crossed the street, doing his best to regain his balance. "Good evening madam," Constable Lithgow tipped his hat at the woman. He didn't want to alarm her. But he didn't want to chase her off either.

The woman, being what she was, startled in surprise. She certainly wasn't expecting that sort of treatment, and her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What sort of song you trying to sing, eh?"

At first, Lithgow admitted to himself, his aim had been only to show her Mrs Lovett's drawing . Not all men were interested in the meat that walked the streets. But now that he was quite close, he saw how pitiful and thin she looked under the street lamp. In healthier times, he guessed the black woman's skin would have shone richly. Her eyes were thin and almost slanted; her mouth was wide and full. She looked the opposite to every London woman he had ever seen. But she didn't look pretty, at least, not now. Her limbs were thin as the lamp post behind her, and the skin over her face was pulled extremely tight. She was starving.

"Take this," he said suddenly, placing a handful of coins in her chafed palms. He was too ashamed to admit he'd come over to interview her. Being a policeman, he'd had some awful run-ins with prostitutes in the past, and he'd never thought favourably of them since. And the girl standing before him now could have been any other of the starving women he'd brushed aside in the past. He hadn't always been an understanding person. Not for a long time. It was part of the job, part of seeing people's body parts cut up and tossed around London like they were pieces of cattle.

The woman didn't thank him. She didn't think she owed him anything. "What's your name?" the woman called after his retreating figure. He was surprised at the strength in her voice. It didn't waver.

"Lithgow," the Constable answered. He hesitated slightly, wondering what interest the woman could have in him.

"Ya look tired," she said. "Want to come with me an' get some broth? It'll warm ya up."

Lithgow stared. She was the one starving, and she was asking _him _if he were hungry? She didn't look like she could take another step without falling over, but he didn't say so. "You should hate me," was all he said.

"Why?" The woman gave a dry, yet somehow light, laugh. She shook the coins, as if to remind herself they were hers. "Because ya 'aven't 'elped every fallen woman?" She laughed again. "I knows ya Constable, and youse and ya men are good sorts."

"How do you know me?"

"Wot? As if ya 'aven't 'eard lately! The whole street knows ya! Youse the one tryin' ta capture them murderers! Sweeney Todd, and 'is mistress, Mrs Lovett the baker!" She was quite breathless by the end of the sentence, but she stood there, panting proudly.

Constable Lithgow wasn't quite sure what to say. He wanted to ask the woman for information.

Seeing his face, the woman looped an arm around him, and led him down the streets. "I dun 'ave no infamtion of the like that'd 'elp ya with the murders. But I says to meself, there ain't gonna be no investagashion unless this copper get some food in 'im. So you comin?"

He stopped short, and so did she.

"Well?" She looked at him expectantly. "When I's gots the money, I know a great liddle spot where me and me girls like to eat."

Lithgow carefully disentangled himself from the woman's painfully thin arm. "I wanted to help you," he said cautiously, "but….it's not necessary for you to feel _obligated to me,_" he finished.

This time there was no cheerfulness in her expression. She adjusted the red and indigo striped shawl around her head, so that her hair was properly hidden, and her face shielded from the cold. "I know," she said. "That's why I'm asking ya. Youse a good man. And I dun sleep with good men."

At last, Constable Lithgow decided. The woman was shivering, and the most useful thing he could do that night, if he wasn't going to catch any murderers, was to make sure this woman was fed. He nodded.

"That's betta then," the woman said, giving a small, tight grin, and she re-looped her arm in his, and led him down the street.

* * *

_Sorry there's not much Sweeney+Lovett in this chapter, but next chapter is all about them!_


	9. A Bun in the Oven

**~A BUN IN THE OVEN ~**

**A/N:** _Sorry I'm so late updating you guys! I re-watched Sweeney today, and I keep noticing so much more with every viewing. I never realised, for instance, that despite how whacked out Sweeney is most of the time, he _does _start to feel at least something for Mrs Lovett. Well, that's what I got out of the little 'moment' he and Mrs Lovett had before Anthony came bursting in and ruined it. Which makes the movie so much more tragic for me *sniffle* =( Now, on with the story!_

"Police!" Shouts echoed down the corridor.

Toby went to the door, unlocked it, and peeped outside. "Quick! It's the filth! Wot do we do?"

"Can we sneak into tha' next carriage?" Mrs Lovett followed Mr Todd and Toby to the compartment door.

Toby shook his head. His face was contorted in childish desperation. "They're two compar'men's from us!"

Mrs Lovett drew him back from the door and locked it. She knelt on the floor, brushed down Toby's suit, and gave his hair a good licking over with her hand. Mrs Lovett felt a pang of guilt. She'd been so busy drowning herself in her own sorrows, she forgotten all about Toby. The poor child had bags under his eyes and the perkiness of an East London drunk.

"Now love," Mrs Lovett tried to say with a cheery face, "no need ter get upset. We've come too far ter go ter pieces. We ain't givin' up yet! Wot do ya say, Mr T?" Mrs Lovett clasped Toby's hand, and looked over to where Mr T stood, silent by the door.

"Mr T?" Mrs Lovett stood, placing a gloved hand on Toby's shoulder. The barber didn't turn around, but she could tell from the way his hands kept itching for his razors that he was considering something dangerous. "I have an idea," she said, forcing herself to keep a respectable distance from him, "but ya 'ave ter trust me."

"And what, Mrs Lovett," said Mr Todd at last, drawn away from whatever dark plans he was contemplating, "might that be?"

"Well I wos thinkin' –" Mrs Lovett began to grab luggage from the stands above them. Mr Todd copied her, dumping them beside Toby. "Excuse me, _gen'lemun,_" Mrs Lovett said, tearing through one of her suitcases.

"Want some 'elp, mum?" Toby offered politely, automatically bending down to help her in her mad search.

"Boy," Mr Todd warned with a deadly eye, "you don't want to be doing that. Turn away."

"Right," Toby coloured, catching a glimpse of Mrs Lovett's bright red bloomers. He went with Mr T to guard the door.

At last, she discovered what she'd been searching for. "Ah ha!" Mrs Lovett said, drawing out the item she needed. She quickly stuffed back her ladies under-wear. "You can turn round now lads."

They stared at Mrs Lovett.

"That's the plan?" said Toby, his eyes looking as if they were to pop out of his head.

"That's the plan!" Mrs Lovett said proudly, while Mr T's face was plastered in an intense frown. "Wot?" Mrs Lovett said. "You got a betta idea?"

It appeared he didn't, because Mr Todd chose to remain safe in his cocoon of silence.

* * *

**- Five Minutes Later -**

"LORD 'AVE _MERCY ON ME!" _Mrs Lovett's voice echoed shrilly down the carriage corridor. She sounded like a cross between a London seagull and one of Mrs Mooney's battered cats. "SOMEBODY KILL ME! I CAN'T STAND IT! LORD 'ELP ME!"

Sweeney Todd carried Mrs Lovett in his arms, and Mrs Lovett had her arms clasped firmly around his neck. Toby ran ahead of them, doing his best to signal the police – although, Mrs Lovett was doing a pretty good job of it all by herself.

"Don't over do it, Mrs Lovett," Sweeney warned her, whispering in her ear. "You're pregnant, not dying!"

If she hadn't been pretending to be in the middle of premature contractions, Mrs Lovett would have remonstrated Mr Todd for his ignorant comment.

"IT'S THE SAME BLOODY THING!" She shrieked.

They were a strange sight, hurtling down the carriage. Mr Todd quickly came to a stand-still in front of the policeman blocking the corridor. There were four of them.

"Hullo!" said one of the policeman. Hullo wasn't really a greeting, it was complete surprise and bafflement.

"HELP!" Mr Todd forced himself to bellow out. "My wife needs medical attention!"

"What's going on?" The second policeman asked, a stocky, thinly beared man.

"'ELP, BLOODY 'ELP ME!" Mrs Lovett shrieked again for good measure. And continued to shriek. By now, half the compartments were open, and passengers were sticking their heads out to get a better view of the commotion.

One of the policemen placed his hands about his ears. "I'm sorry, sir, but we're undertaking a criminal investigation concerning two London fugitives, and we cannot allow anyone to leave until we are satisfied."

The stocky policeman stepped in front of his companions. "What's wrong? Is she hurt?" He stared at Mrs Lovett. She did not seem to be physically injured.

"How DOES IT SEEM?! My wife is labouring!" Mr Todd genuinely felt himself buckling under Mrs Lovett's weight. She didn't weigh much, but the ear-splitting skill of those vocal cords made him want to drop her.

Suddenly the policeman looked very worried. The last thing they'd imagined during their investigation was a woman giving birth on the train floor! "You mean to say," said the stocky policeman, "that your wife is with child?"

All eyes locked on the screaming Mrs Lovett and her ostensibly swollen belly, masked by the thick layers of her navy dress. It was clear she was beside herself. "I WANT A DOCTOR!" Mrs Lovett shrieked again, her face wrenched into a fit of agony.

Mr Todd didn't even bother answering him. "Gentlemen, my wife needs urgent medical attention. If she does not get it, and dies on account of _your_ incompetence, I will make sure that every single one of you is charged with manslaughter. Do I make myself plain?"

The stocky policeman locked eyes with Mr Todd. There was something incomprehensibly cold in that man's gaze, the policeman decided, that unsettled him more than any of the low-life crims he'd seen in Newgate prison. But the wife was clearly in dire straights, and if they made no effort to help her, what kind of officers would they be? The stocky policeman nodded. "Right you are sir. We'll 'ave a coach waiting for you in under two minutes." He turned and nodded to his colleagues.

Two of the policemen ran off to find a coach.

"All the same," said the stocky policeman, "I'd like to have your address." He stood between Mr Todd and the carriage exit, a brave move, considering the barely checked fury emanating from Mr Todd.

"PLEASE, 'USBAND, GIVE US A FLAMIN' DOCTA!" Mrs Lovett's tormented warble filled up the silent train.

Sweeney Todd gave the policeman a false address.

"I'll be checking it, mind you," the policeman said, and moved reluctantly aside.

Mr Todd rushed out the carriage exit, Mrs Lovett hollering in his arms. If that she-devil screams one more time, Mr Todd thought fiercely, I will either drop her, or slit her throat.

Behind them, Toby followed with the other policemen, carrying their luggage.

Outside, the train had stopped by an unoccupied part of countryside. A long dirt track wound its way alongside the train tracks. It was terribly overcast, and cold. The black coach waiting for them on the roadside seemed completely at odds with the wild landscape around them. The driver stepped down, gave the horses a check, and looked round expectantly at the sound of Mrs Lovett's cries.

"Emergency!" The policemen shouted, rushing to open the carriage door.

The coach driver spotted Toby, arms full of luggage he could barely carry. "Bring them up here son!" The driver ran over and relieved Toby of half the luggage. Toby tossed the rest of the luggage up beside the driver, ran round the other side of the coach, and leapt in.

"Hurry gentlemen!" Mr Todd barrelled through the policemen, and heaved the nearly insensible Mrs Lovett up into the carriage. He clambered in after her, and yelled for the driver to take off.

"Garn!" The driver whipped the horses, and after a slight backwards lurch the coach went clattering forward.

"Thank you sirs!" Mr Todd shouted after the policemen, resisting the urge to make some obscene hand gesture. He had to hand it to her, Mrs Lovett had incredible stamina. She had stopped the endless ear-piercing screams, and was now emulating intermittent contractions. For a woman who, to his knowledge had never been pregnant, she was extremely convincing.

The minute the coach was down the road, Mrs Lovett stopped screeching. The wind outside the coach had picked up, clattering against the windows with a howl as powerful as Mrs Lovett's 'pregnant' screams. There was no way the driver would be able to hear them.

"Well, 'ow was that?" Mrs Lovett beamed proudly at them both. Mr Todd was squeezed to her left, and Toby to her right. Her giant dress was taking up most of the room. It wasn't a luxurious coach, by any standard, and Mr Todd's elbow kept getting stuck in Mrs Lovett's side.

"Smashin', mum!" Toby grinned. "I really did think you was preggers!"

"Thanks love," Mrs Lovett said, smiling down at her wise little charge. She waited for Mr T, sitting silently to their right, to give some sort of answer of acknowledgement. "Mr T? Wasn't it thrillin'?"

"A bloody wonder, Mrs Lovett," Mr T replied sarcastically, his eyes on the black, shapeless lining of the coach. "If you'd yelled any louder, you would've woke the whole of London."

"Well," said Mrs Lovett, trying to infuse cheer into her voice, though Toby could tell she was offended. "It did the trick though. Got us away safe, it did."

"For now," Mr T remarked ominously. From then on they fell into silence.

Toby didn't look over at his mum. He knew her too well though, to know she was hurting on account of Mr T. Unthinkingly, he took his mum's hand and squeezed it. She looked down at him again, and her half-attempted cheeriness reminded him of one of those street clowns he'd seen when he'd worked for Signor Pirelli. They'd paint giant smiles on their faces, but their grave, solemn expressions always managed to leak through the heavy make-up. "We'll be by the sea in a jiffy," he whispered to her. For the second time that day, he wished he could take Mr T's cane and belt him over the back of the head with it. Couldn't Mr T see she tried so hard? All her cheery, kind little ways were for him, but he only stomped on them with his selfish, bitter words.

"'Course love," Mrs Lovett replied, "now, it's been a long day. Try 'n get some sleep, ay?"

"Yes Mum." Toby turned, tried to get comfortable. He was squished up against the window, but for once he didn't mind. He knew they might get caught, but still, he was bursting with excitement. Hyde Park was the closest thing he'd ever gotten to nature, and now he could see nothing but miles of green countryside! Where would they end up, Mr T, his mum and he? Toby pressed his head forward and looked as far back as he could through the window. The policemen had disappeared, and the train was nothing but a black dot. How long would it take for them to put two and two together, and come after us, he wondered? Or had mum's genius plan really worked? He fell asleep worrying about it, and soon his soft snores filled the awkward silence of the coach.

I say awkward silence, but we all know it was only really awkward for one person. Mrs Lovett was running her mind over everything awful and embarrassing that had happened to her that day. She was thinking mostly of Mr Todd picking her up. She'd never been that close to him, never dreamed it possible, but it wasn't a romantic moment. She'd been too busy screaming her lungs out to really cherish anything about their closeness. And what was she to Mr T? It was the same mantra she put herself through every hour before sleep, when the darkness seized hold of her most vulnerable thoughts. It wasn't something she could help – she did her best, of course, in the daytimes, to fix her mind on the ordinary, boring things. But when the object of your affection is always close, or nearby, it's impossible to forget them, or pretend they don't have any kind of effect on you.

And now it was happening again. He was so close to her, his elbow right by her side. Mrs Lovett wanted to lean over and kiss the side of his cheek, but she didn't dare. She decided on the next bravest thing, and snuck a peek at him. Mr Todd didn't seem aware of anything. He was staring outside into the growing darkness. It was only mid afternoon, but a storm was growing over them, turning the sky and everything around them black.

"Mr T? You asleep?" Her voice was hoarse from shouting, and Mrs Lovett only just had the courage to let the words slip out.

"No."

Mrs Lovett was surprised he'd answer her. "I can't sleep neither." She decided suddenly to be brave, and reached over and found Mr T's gloved hand. Her own hand slipped neatly into it, and she wondered what his skin would feel like underneath the glove. While she was fantasising, Mr T turned slowly and met her gaze with deliberate coldness.

"What, Mrs Lovett, are you doing?"

"Nothin'," Mrs Lovett replied, her face burning. She withdrew her hand as if she'd been struck by a snake. The silence between them resumed, and Mrs Lovett felt every bump as they coach raced along the road. Wot must he think of me? First this mornin', fallin' into 'is lap, and now this! But a small, quieter voice started in Mrs Lovett's head: Don't I deserve a little love? Am I so repulsive?

Her hand moved instinctively to her lips, where not more than twelve hours ago, the stranger's mouth had covered them. No, the voice replied. You ain't so repulsive. It's Mr T with the problem.

Mrs Lovett found herself staring at the darkness beyond the coach. What then, was she going to do, if Mr T could never bring himself to love her?

* * *

_Hoped you liked it! Next Chapter might have a few wedding bells in the air!_


	10. The Tonsorial Touch

**~The Tonsorial Touch~**

**A/n: Finally! I never thought'd I'd finish this chapter!. I had no inspiration today, and so I went and read I'm the Only One fic by Todd666, it really put a smile on my dial. =D To Alchemistic: Yes, the stranger is definitely coming back! It's taking me forever to get Mr T and Mrs Lovett to their destination. A bit like how long it's going to take Mr Todd to realise he's meant for Nellie!**

After half an hour, the coach pulled to an abrupt halt. The horses neighed, and a little ahead, the faint glow of a village shone.

Toby sat up suddenly, wiping sleep from his eyes. "Where in bleedin' Jesus are we?"

"Quiet lad!" Mrs Lovett put her fingers to her lips.

Outside, the cab driver descended. They could hear him speaking to the horses. Soon he would be opening the coach door. He'd discover that Mrs Lovett wasn't pregnant at all.

Mr Todd and Mrs Lovett locked eyes. "Wot we gonna do?" Mrs Lovett, for once, was out of ideas. "'E can't find out we's fugitives!"

Mr Todd's face was unreadable. "Let me, Mrs Lovett. You've done more than enough." Then he got up, pulled on the door handle, and jumped down into the pitiless darkness.

_You've done more than enough. _Nellie knew from his tone that he wasn't congratulating her. She was a nuisance, an annoying cockcroach. But then a tremulous voice woke the silence. It was Toby. Mrs Lovett turned and squeezed the lad's hand.

"Mum, I can't see where we is!" Toby whispered. "Should we strike a match?"

Mrs Lovett heard the boy fiddling in his vest pockets for a match, and she gave him a gentle slap. "Not now Toby love. You jus' sit there, nice and quiet does it."

Then, quick as her baker's fingers would allow, Mrs Lovett drew across the curtains. "You do the same," she indicated to Toby, and the lad copied her, drawing the curtains on his side.

"Now wot we do?" the lad asked, waiting for instruction.

"We wait," said Mrs Lovett, already anxiously twisting the ribbons of her bonnet. It lay in her lap now, a useless thing. Mrs Lovett couldn't stand wondering why the cab driver hadn't spoken to them yet. She couldn't stand wondering what Mr T was doing in the darkness. And she couldn't stand thinking on what Mr T could possibly be doing to the cab driver.

"Wot you say you an' me play a game?" Mrs Lovett said, turning to Toby suddenly. They crouched down low against the seat of the coach.

"Wot shall we play?" Toby loved games almost as much as he loved Gin.

Mrs Lovett, on the hand, hadn't played a game since she was twelve. She clutched at straws for a game, _any _game that could distract her and the boy. "'Ow's about Eye-spy?"

*** * ***

Sweeney was used to the darkness.

Back in the colony, he'd spent many a sober evening cutting hair of less-than-respectable men with only a pathetic candle to guide him. His punishment for marrying Lucy, he used to tell himself darkly. He supposed, in typically warped Sweeney thinking, that if he'd been born with only low thoughts like the Judge: thoughts of possessing women that weren't his to possess, and persecuting the innocent, then maybe he'd have been rewarded.

"_Sir_," Sweeney called.

The cab driver had settled the horses, and was coming toward Sweeney. He held a lantern in one hand, and it shone spectacularly over Sweeney. The cab driver thought for one brief, fearful moment that he was seeing a ghost.

"We're near town," the driver said, rushing forward. "How is she?"

"Better than you'll be," Sweeney said, and in one swift motion, cut the man's throat.

The driver hadn't even time for shock. The blood curdled to the surface of his throat like porridge in a pot, and he fell forward. Sweeney could still hear gargling noises as the body slowly expelled the last seconds of the man's life.

Problem taken care of. Now he could run back to the irritating Mrs Lovett and tell her they were free to drive the cab wherever the wind blew. Wherever her inane, womanish thoughts dreamed of.

So now it seemed his curse to be travelling with a flitty, infuriating woman and half-wit boy.

And he was indebted to protect them, at least, for this far. He didn't know why he'd followed them this far. It wasn't Sweeney's fashion to follow anyone. But now he'd had his revenge after fifteen years of waiting, he had nothing to direct him. Before, he'd dreamed rivulets of blood running down Mrs Lovett's crummy wallpaper. Now, he had only the long, winding path ahead, with nothing to look forward to.

Except –

Maybe in the next life, he could see Lucy again. He'd be able to explain this horrible business to her. This shining little ruby of hope that rose in Sweeney's thoughts vanished when he thought of how his wife might receive him now. After such degradation. After such wasted years. And would he even be allowed to see her? He'd gone so far away from that vision of white, blonde loveliness. Every day, she was fading faster; the Lucy in his memories. And when he passed his last breath, was that it? No glimmer of joy?

Would he be cast down into that pit of flames, and refused that final word of forgiveness from his wife?

Sweeney Todd stared at the blood rivers seeping from the man's slit throat. He'd promised Mrs Lovett to stop killing, but she didn't count. It was his wife that he'd betrayed. The corpse before him didn't seem any the wiser in death. Maybe Sweeny didn't have to wonder? Maybe when he finally died, he'd just go into that impassable cavern of black, and never think another harmful, bitter thought again. He would be nothing.

Sweeney gave the body a slight kick, and with a sudden great effort, bent down and dragged it into the bushes. Fortunately, there was a fair slope below the curtain of forest surrounding the road. Sweeney gave it another good kick, and the body went tumbling down until it was nothing more than an brief, bloody slash of razor.

Now, for the living, Sweeney thought. He forced himself to turn from that endless slope. If it hadn't been for that unspoken dread – the slim chance of meeting his dead wife, and finding her bitterly disappointed in him - Sweeney and Benjamin – _both parts of him_ would have jumped. That's where he belonged, he realised with a certain kind of calm. Down that deep ravine, with the dead man.

_But not for me. Even rest is too good for Sweeney. Back to the living I'm damned to go!_

If Mrs Lovett and boy hadn't forced him to come along, he'd probably be wandering the London streets and sewers. Anywhere that filthy city could lead him.

Suddenly he heard voices again, and it was as if he'd surfaced from a deep, bottomless lake. The lamplight lit up the drawn curtains of the coach, and he could see the faint outlines of Mrs Lovett and the boy huddled inside. He took up the lamp, and strode over to the coach.

He'd killed another one, when he'd promised Lucy no more murders after the Judge. But what did it matter now? He was already in Hell.

* * *

Mrs Lovett was fidgeting. "'e should be back by now," she said, squirming. "Wot in devil's name is that man up to?" She leant over and pressed her face against the window, seeing and hearing nothing but darkness. The cold pane of glass briefly shocked her forehead. She shuddered and pulled back. "Stay 'ere, love," she ordered.

Toby frowned, but returned her earnest gaze with a solemn nod. Good boy. Loyal lad.

Just as she was about to pull the door handle and clamber out, someone yanked the carriage door open. Mrs Lovett shrieked, nearly falling forward. It was Mr T, holding the cab driver's lamp, covered from head to toe in blood!

"Mr T!" She gasped. "You promised me you was done with killings!"

He placed the lamp on the collapsible coach steps, and began wiping off one of his bloody razors with a white handkerchief. Mrs Lovett and Toby watched for a few trance-like seconds as the hanky's white surface was transformed into a blood stained, splattered landscape.

Mrs Lovett shook her head, as if to dispel its enchantment on her. "You promised!" She repeated.

"I did. But not to you." And, as if disgusted by the sight of her, even though _he_ was the one covered in blood, Mr Todd shut the door and went outside to sit in the driver's seat.

"Stay there!" Mrs Lovett commanded Toby, and rushed out after Mr Todd. Not as easy as she thought. She still had the flamin' pillow stuffed up her stomach. In the darkness outside, she reached under her dress. She pulled it out, and threw in into the bushes. Then she followed the lantern up to where Mr T sat, still as a statue.

"Mr T! Wot you doin'? Takin' off wi'out me?!" Mrs Lovett grabbed the lantern, and scanned ahead of them. It didn't do much good. The lights up ahead were all they could see.

"And where, Mrs Lovett," Mr Todd sneered, "do you suggest we go?"

Nellie buried her feelings. He was nasty to everyone, she reminded herself, not just her. "Well, s'pose we could go an' stay in the village," she said, voicing her thoughts out loud. "But then them coppas will 'ave caught up with us by then. We'd best kept 'eadin' west."

"An astoundin' thought, but where, exactly, is west my dear?"

She noticed he was using "my dear" insultingly, but Mrs Lovett was smart enough to be quiet about it. "West is Exeter, love," she said in a cheery-chatty manner, though she didn't feel it. "But I wos thinkin' Exeter ain't remote enough. We need ta get way out of the way of the law, if ye get me drift."

"Anything you say, Mrs Lovett." Mr Todd gave a sharp tug on the reins, and the horses took off.

They passed through Exeter two hours later, and Mrs Lovett wished dearly that they might have stopped till the morning so that she could explore all the strange streets and houses. Along the way, Mrs Lovett was making plans. Foolish plans, perhaps, but they were the only plans she knew.

In the end she couldn't stand Mr Todd's silence.

"I 'eard o' this sweet little village up in the South West o' England," she began, glancing over at Mr Todd in the driver's seat. "If I could jus' rememba the name! It wos such a pretty place, me uncle used ter tell me bout it when I was jus' a tiny thing."

"Mrs Lovett." Mr Todd glared at her.

"Yes dearie?"

"Shut it."

*** * ***

**Gah! I promise some proper Sweenett moments next chapter. ****I was deep in Sweeney Land, and my mum came in and threw my laundry on my bed, and it hit my head. O_o Completely ruined the moment! Sorry this chapter is so short, but I have to go practice my dance routine. =D**


	11. The Drunken Foray

**A/n:** Sorry for my late update but life - or rather exams, get in the way. Thank you in particular **F8WUZL8, stripedpolkadots, riceandchopstixs and Nala162024 **for their generous reviews - and the silent readers as well. Finally we're about to see some Sweenett love. Either that or Sweeney is an ass. =D

**~The Drunken Foray~**

It was a pretty morning, Mrs Lovett decided. Peach and violet with just a tinge of grey; enough to wash the sins of last night's crime away. After Exeter, they'd ridden too many hours to count.

They freed the horses, and pushed the coach into a deep ditch. The trio walked the rest of the way along the road. Sweeney had hardly said a word since the murder, and Mrs Lovett wasn't going to risk anything by asking questions.

You poor fool, Nellie scolded herself. What made you think he'd change his ways once all this awful business is done? You're a fool, you know, a poor, soddin' fool –

'Oh shuttup!" she told herself Toby and Sweeney stared at her. Nellie blushed. "It's those bloody birds," she said, "never could stand them chirpin' 'appy things!"

She walked ahead, carrying her warm carpet bag. It had rained heavily during the night. Now they slogged through ankle-deep mud. The bottom of her skirts were filthy; there was definitely no salvaging them. Still, the skies looked hopeful, the road ahead was nice an empty, and Mr T might come around.

"Mum," Toby said suddenly as they reached the last two hundred metres of road.

"Wot, Toby?" Mrs Lovett was too worn-out to say 'dear.' Ahead, they could see the beginnings of town. Cobblestone streets, stone houses. Above the trees the peak of church-top could be seen. Church. Mrs Lovett hadn't been in one since she was fifteen, but the sight of that straight, sharp architecture reminded her of another service apart from mass. It was a foolish idea, she told herself, bleedin' foolish, but the thought wouldn't go away. She only had to find the right words to put it to Mr T. One day.

"I wos thinkin' Mum, wot we gonna do now? 'Ow we gonna live?"

Nice interlude, lad, Mrs Lovett thought. "Well, Toby, love," she said chattily, slowing down, "that all depends..."

"On wot?"

"On Mr T." Mrs Lovett turned, and met the barber's tired eyes. Mr Todd had forgotten how to sleep, it seemed, over the years. And so had she.

"It has nothing to do with me," he said brusquely. He dropped the bags in the mud.

"Wot you talkin' 'bout love," Nellie said, feigning stupidity. "Course it 'as. We're all a team in this, an' we've come so far – '

Sweeney stared at her.

"You can go the rest on your own," he spat, walking ahead without another word. Mrs Lovett watched too, as he walked the rest of the two hundred metres alone. He ran a hand through the back of his dirty silver-streaked hair.

Mrs Lovett couldn't let him go – not after all she'd suffered for him. A miserable Mr Todd was better than no Mr Todd at all, and besides, Mrs Lovett thought she dserved a quarter share in that hair, wot with all the meals she'd cooked him, and the bloody shirts she'd washed. "I only 'ope they hang you first," she shouted after his retreating form.

"Well, Toby," she tried cheerfully, "looks like it's just you an' me now love."

"Wot did I do Mum?" Toby looked genuinely bewildered.

Nellie drew him to her breast and squeezed him hard. "Nothin' love. It ain't your fault Mr Todd's an ungrateful lout. We'll do o'right by ourselves, you'll see."

Toby picked up one bag, and Mrs Lovett the other. And they did do alright – for about forty-five minutes.

"That Mr Todd. 'E won't last an hour on 'is own," Mrs Lovett began.

**~Six Hours Later~**

By the time they'd arrived in Bideford, Mrs Lovett was a miserable mess. Toby picked out a nice inn, and they bought a large helping of ham, bread and pumpkin soup. Mrs Lovett made no mention of finding Mr Todd, and when the soup finally came, Toby began to suspect there was something seriously wrong with his mum. She was just sitting there, staring at the soup, hoping it might materialize into something that looked like Sweeney Todd.

"Ah Toby love," she said at last, "why can't love be simple?"

Love? Was that why she looked so sad? It must be. Toby wasn't dumb. He saw the looks his mum gave Mr Todd. As if it wasn't as plain as a hen's arse – she was stupid in love for that killer. "I dun know nothin' 'bout that stuff mum – but I think we's much betta off now 'e's gone."

"Course dear," Mrs Lovett said, but her voice came out as dry and dusty as her hair. All her plans were nothin' if she had no one to share it with. Once, when Albert had been alive, she'd thought a kid might complete her world. But even having Toby – not even that was enough. "Toby dear," she said suddenly, getting to her feet. "I gotta run some errands. You stay put here for a while."

"Can I come?"

"No!" Mrs Lovett lowered her voice. "wot I mean is dear," she said, slightly rasping, "it's much safer for us both if we isn't seen togetha."

It was all a lie of course. Mrs Lovett had no intention of doing errands. She had a mission. Find Mr T – or poison herself.

Until an hour ago, Mrs Lovett had never understood Lucy. Stupid, foolish, weak. That's what she'd been to Nellie, trying to poison herself when she had a baby girl to look after. But now Nellie wouldn't be so quick to judge. It might be cowardly, but she just couldn't act anymore. She couldn't smile for anymore customers. She couldn't pretend she was cheery for Toby either. He would do good without her, she reasoned. They were in a large enough town. Not anything London sized, but large enough that someone might take pity on an orphaned boy. Mrs Lovett was about to consider where she should search for Mr Todd, when a rank smell filled the air. Rank was the wrong word for it, Mrs Lovett realised. It was the smell of mould, piss, mud and drink.

"You, woman, you got sixpence?"

A man stopped her on the cobblestone street. His hand gripped her arm, and immediately she shook him off. She wasn't afraid – Mrs Lovett had dealt with the best and finest London drunks, but she could never get used to the smell. He grinned hopefully at her, tanned, grimy and toothless. He could be poor, crazy or drunk; she didn't care.

"Sorry love, I got me own demons." To get rid of him, she disappeared into the nearest building.

"No bleedin' wonder," Mrs Lovett cursed when she realised where she was. Of course a drunk would hang outside a tavern. All the men stared the minute she entered. But nobody stopped drinking. There were a few women as well.

She was forced to pass by a particularly scungy group of men.

"Check out that haybag!" one of them said.

I'd like ter dab it up wiv her!"

But she ignored them. Sitting at the very back, with his head bent over his drink, was Sweeney Todd.

* * *

Mrs Lovett didn't call his name – that might just frighten him off again. Instead, she gave a cursive nod to the bartender, lifted her skirts a little over the knocked stools and broken glass, and strode past the tables of oogling men until she reached that grim, sorry corner where Mr Todd sat.

His head rested on the stained wood. His thick black and white hair spooled over his crooked arms like some strange, worn table fabric.

Mrs Lovett picked at the pits in the wood. "Misery loves company," she said at last.

At first she wondered if he had passed out. The head didn't move for three minutes, and then –

"Ah, Mrs Lovett," came the gravelly voice, and the head slowly rose, so that the ashen face and bloodshot eyes at last met hers. "It seems you have followed me, as usual, like a bad smell."

He was drunk as a skunk, Mrs Lovett realised, otherwise he wouldn't have spoke her name so freely in public. Lined up at the end of the table, Nellie counted eleven shot glasses. The glutton. Now he'd gone and wasted all their money on drink.

"I resent that," Nellie spoke firmly, suddenly overwhelmed by a sudden hatred; hatred, mostly, for the man's unending selfishness. "After all I've done for ya, I think I deserve a bit o' respect."

"Respect, my dear land lady," he said, sitting straight-up, "is for whores."

He grasped her half-gloved hands sharply, drawing her forward.

Any other time Nellie would have given both her arms and possibly her voice box for a chance at such close proximity. But this wasn't Mr Todd talking, she convinced herself – it was the drink. And the rank smell of liquor filled her face and the close space between them, close enough almost for their lips to touch. Nellie focused on those lips, those small, oddly shaped lips, and hoped he was looking at her own. But he wasn't.

He was staring at her with her two other favourite creations – his eyes. But she wished he wasn't. They were hard and cruel and pitiless – to him she as worthless as the drunken man on the street.

She drew back, intensely embarrassed.

"Think of it Mrs Lovett. They work twenty-four hours a day, earn a pittance, and are subjected to the most unsavoury work a Londoner can imagine. While you and I, our work is barely work at all. We don't earn a wage, but pleasure, kill – '

"Sshhh! You bloody fool, you'll give us away," she whispered, putting a hand over his mouth to silence him.

He removed her hand, and continued. "You can't be respected, Mrs Lovett, but a whore, _there's _a woman I can respect. See, "he said, grasping at her glove, "imagine this is a woman's thigh. Society demands it be shielded. So much better skinned."

Nellie watched him nervously as he tore off her glove. She didn't look around, but hoped no one was watching the scene. He had better stop, or else she'd have to get up. It wouldn't do to draw attention to themselves, not when the law was after them.

"Mr T," she whispered, "I didn't come 'ere for you ta make fun o' me."

Even drunk, Sweeney Todd was formidable. He was like a crow, taking in everything about her; her breathless voice, her red face, her left hand placed flat on the table to stop it from shaking.

"The eternal question," he said dangerously. "_Why?_ Why, Mrs Lovett, _why _did you come? To beg me? To change my mind?" he mocked.

Nellie said nothing. She was too hurt by the truth to think of a clever reply.

"What do you think will happen to us, Mrs Lovett, once we are caught?" He taunted. "Do you imagine they'll be decent to you, while we're in gaol, because you're a woman? Are you really so naïve? Which of us, do you think, will they hang first?"

It was the drink talking, Mrs Lovett comforted herself.

Sweeney signalled the bar. A thin-nosed woman wearing a barely suppressed grin dumped another round on the table in exchange for his coins.

Before he could take the drink, Mrs Lovett snatched the glass, and downed it in an instant. He deserved it.

"So you can drink, Mrs Lovett, how clever," he snarled.

Mrs Lovett was momentarily wordless. But her anger fuelled her, and it launched her into a speech of lies. "I was gunna beg you, ya hipocritical sod. You could drown in the Thames for wot I care, but it turns out you is as guilty as me, an' if they catch us, I'm as you say we is – for the hangman's noose. Just coz you 'as a wish ta meet yer maker don't mean me an' Toby 'ave the same cravin'. So let me put it to ya in words you'll comprehend – either you start wantin' ta live, for our sakes, or I'll do ya in meself. Don't think I won't. O'right, I'm beggin' you now, give us a good year or two at least, enough time for them to forget the murders. Then you can leave, do wot you will. But you owe us Mr T - Toby deserves a new life, an' I – I deserve the sea."

She was panting by the time she had finished.

"Nellie," he said cruelly, drawing closer so that their noses touched, "don't you want to be _respectful?"_

And then, before she could argue, his mouth was on her. His slight stubble grazed her chin. Nellie liked to think she had some amount of self-control, but that only worked when she was thinking with her head. She let him kiss her deeply, and his tongue worked its way into her mouth.

At first she did nothing, too shocked by the thought that it was Sweeney kissing her, not the dream-like stranger she had met on the train. Eventually, she leaned forward. Her curls met his rough curtain of hair. He was seducing her, and Nellie responded with abandon – there was nothing gentle about her kiss.

She didn't mind the stench that went up her nostrils. She didn't mind the taste of liquor. She didn't mind that he was selfish. The stranger had given her the chance to possess, but not Sweeney. Her mouth, now covered by those odd lips, was his. Let it be this way always, she begged. Let me die this way.

Sweeney gripped her, and Nellie's elbow slid back, clattering into the shot glasses. He broke off the kiss. "Mrs Lovett," he hissed, clasping her chin with his other hand, "how does it feel to be respectful?"

He began to kiss her underneath the neck, and Nellie froze. All the passion flooding her died, and it dawned on her. He was testing her, by temptation. And she had failed. How far was she willing to humiliate herself in public? She wondered how many people were watching them, and didn't dare look. How far could he test her respectability? Not very far, Mrs Lovett realised, because to him, she was nothing. A game. A rag. A piece of string.

She jumped up, her neck burning. Sweeney drew back, his gaze still on her violated neck. He leant back on the bench, looking cruelly at her with laughing eyes.

Nellie wanted to run off back to the inn, and bury herself in Toby's shoulder. Instead, she drew out the carefully written address from her purse, and slapped it on the table beside the empty glasses. "Wateva you may think, Mr T, I'm not your whore." Her eyes were on the brink of spilling, but she didn't wipe them.

The entire room watched her retreating form exit the pub. Except Sweeney Todd. He was staring at the address.

* * *

_I tried to keep Sweeney IC. Which was hard cause the document got deleted first time! Reviews? _


	12. The Proposal

_**A/n:** Sorry I'm late with update. I was at the Sydney Supanova Convention all weekend. Awesome fun - I cosplayed as By the Sea Mrs Lovett on Saturday and the Corpse Bride on Sunday. I even got to get my throat cut from the scarily accurate make-up people there. It really is a creepy feeling to even have someone pretend slit your throat! Thanks again to **Rossie94, Ant, F8WUZL8, alchemistic, DarkDreamer97** **and stripedpolkadots** for your reviews. Hopefully you guys won't want to kill Mr T this time! He's a little bit nicer in this chapter he he. You might have to search deep for Sweeney's apology though. We all know he sucks ass at them._

**~The Proposal~**

It was the time of light. It was the time of dark. It was the time of the deepest longing, and the deepest suffering.

It was twilight, and Mrs Lovett was standing at the bottom of the Inn staircase. She and Toby had done some decent wrangling, and the Inn keeper had given them a cosy little room for a third of the price.

"Up here Ma'am," said the Inn keeper as he led them up the narrow staircase. It was dingy and stank of vomit and piss, but Mrs Lovett reckoned beggars couldn't be choosers.

He set down their luggage at the end of the second floor corridor. It was hard work. The man was thick-set and had heavy bags under his eyes. He handed her the keys to the room. "Breakfast is served at 6am. We don't bring it up, you'll 'ave to come down, see. We don't 'ave no money for servants."

Nellie nodded. "'Course."

"I'll leave youse two it then." And he disappeared, taking the light with him.

Toby entered the room first, dumping their luggage on the end of the bed.

"Mind you don't dirty the bed!" Nellie scolded. She left Toby to unpack, and went straight to the only source of light. A small, narrow little window.

There was a thick coat of dusk on the window sill. The walls were burnt yellow wallpaper. So were the curtains. The fireplace spilt over with coals. The black floorboards were scuffed and chipped. Behind her, Toby sat on the poster bed. A thick dirty quilt covered it. The only other piece of furniture was the little breakfast table by the window, and a broken stool.

No respectable Victorian woman would have set foot in the room. But to Mrs Lovett, having spent most of her working life cooped up in her bakehouse – this place was as good as Queen Victoria's palace.

Mrs Lovett drew the curtains wide across. She rested her elbows on the dusty sill, and looked down into the street. It was five o clock in the afternoon, and the town was still bustling. A mother with four small children juggled two paper bags and a toddler on her hip. Seamstress girls crowded around the bakery for their tea-break. An old woman and a boy were peddling woven broom-sticks on the corner. A gentleman escorted a pink-bonneted woman across the street, holding a large hat-box in his left arm.

There was so much movement, Nellie felt quite useless. She hated standing still, cooped up here. Waiting for someone to come. Now she knew how Mr Todd must have felt, pacing up and down his barber shop all day long. Waiting for the Judge.

Nellie watched as the woman slipped slightly in the mud. The woman laughed as the gentleman struggled to steady her, and still keep a hold on her hat-box. Eventually, they made it across the muddy street. For the briefest moment, the girl squeezed his hand. The gentleman looked both ways to make sure they weren't being watched, and leant over to kiss her on her cheek. Only Nellie saw the gesture, and her chest tightened. She could not remember a time when she had felt that innocent. Or so loved.

"We'll be comfy cosy 'ere, don't you think lad?" Mrs Lovett spun round from the window, and fixed her trade-mark smile for the boy.

Poor thing, Mrs Lovett thought. Last thing 'e needs is me flippin' me lid. Well, we'll see wot I do. If Mr T turns up –

Nellie felt into her skirt pockets. She was still holding the bottle of arsenic. And if he didn't turn up –

She didn't want to think what she would do.

"Mum," Toby piped up, "wot should we do with Mr T's clothes? I mean, since he ain't comin' back an' all."

Nellie froze. Her hand was still clutching the yellow curtain. "Now Toby, wot makes you think 'e won't?"

Toby stared. His large eyes had bags under them. It was all that gin, Nellie thought disapprovingly. She had to get that boy dry somehow. If she was still here by tomorrow –

"Wot makes you think 'e will?" Toby was sitting next to Mr Todd's open suitcase. Most of the clothes had been tossed onto the floor.

"Well, you know Mr Todd. He'll go off an' sulk for a bit. But 'e'll be back. 'e neva means 'alf of wot 'e says."

"He looked real certain to me." Toby watched her carefully. He was waiting for the cracks to appear in her smile.

"Toby. You're not to rifle through Mr T's things." Nellie released the curtain and dropped onto the floor. She picked up each of Mr Todd's shirts and pants slowly, and folded them back in the suitcase.

All the while, Toby watched her intently. "Mum. Wot if 'e doesn't come back?"

She stopped in mid-fold. It was one of Mr Todd's plain white shirts. Had Toby not been sitting near her, she would have leant in and smelt it. Toby met her gaze, and for once she was not pretend-smiling for him.

"Then you can burn 'em."

Once the white shirt was placed in the suit-case, Nellie straightened and retrieved a coin from her skirt-pocket. "Toby, I need you to run me an errand. Quickly now," she said, shooing him off the bed covers. "That bakery down there," she pointed, leading him to the window. "I want 'alf a dozen bread rolls."

Toby nodded, and was already at the door.

"Wait!" Nellie hesitated.

"Yes mum?"

"Make sure you wait until the shop's nearly closed. That's when the best bargains are on."

Toby crinkled his brows. "You sure 'bout that mum? I thought – '

"Love." Mrs Lovett fixed him with a stern look. "Be a good lad. Do as I say. And remember," she added, just as Toby's hand was on the door knob, "make sure you knock. When you come up."

"But I neva knock – "

Nellie turned her back to him, her eyes drawn back to the street scene below. "Well it's time you learnt. A gentleman neva enters a lady's room without knockin'." She fixed him with a half-smile. "Got it?"

"Got it." And he was off.

From the window sill, she could still see the gentleman and the pink-bonneted woman. They were sitting inside the bakery, sharing coffees and pastries together. The woman fiddled with her lolly-pink bonnet, while the man sliced up their pastries. Nellie stared at them enviously. _How I wish that were me and Mr T!_ she thought.

A crass wooden-framed mirror hung over the mantelpiece. Nellie caught her reflection in it. The black silk dress buttoned all the way up her neck and down to her wrists. It made her look like a school marm. Or a widow.

Once she'd unbuttoned it, Nellie stepped forward to evaluate herself. Her neck was at last bare and free, and she unpinned her unruly curls.

She pressed her eyes shut for a moment. The only memory Nellie had of her mother was them sitting in front of a bedroom mirror. Nellie had only been a small girl. The only thing she remembered clearly was the colour of her mother's hair. Wine-red curls. Nellie had tugged at them, convinced they were snakes attached to her Mother's head. It was meant to be a beauty tip. Her mother told her to close her eyes tightly, and open them after a few moments. It was meant to wake you up, if you were tired and angry and bored with the world.

Nellie hadn't tried it for a long time. _What a stupid state I'm in,_ she thought, _a 42 year old woman playing child's games_. But she tried it anyway.

As soon as Nellie opened her eyes, she frowned. It hadn't worked. She still looked like a corpse. Years of mourning two dead men had taken their toll. First she'd mourned Benjamin Barker. Then she'd mourned her Albert. Neither men had understood her. Benjamin had had eyes only for Lucy. And Albert, well, he'd loved her as best as he'd been able. But he couldn't have her heart.

Nellie was certain now that life would be easier, if she was missing a heart. Like Mr T.

She went to her suitcase, and began to rifle through it. It was her first private moment since they'd left London. Suddenly, Nellie spied something colourful poking out of her suitcase. It was a dress. Mona must have snuck it in there when they'd stopped by her tapestry shop. Nellie lifted it out carefully. It was as light as air. Pink tulle and black spots. Low cut. Bare-sleeved. It was the kind of dress Nellie had dreamed of wearing to a picnic in the country. Such stuff of dreams.

In the corner of the room Nellie found a small wash basin. It gave her an idea. She'd have to go downstairs and fill it up with warm water, but at least she could wash herself.

* * *

An hour later, Nellie was sitting on the filthy bed. Her curls were pressed, and the pink dress clung to her like fairy floss.

Now, Nellie thought miserably, now all I have ta do is wait.

* * *

When Sweeney Todd had finally wasted all his money, they kicked him out of the pub. For three hours, he'd wandered the town.

Not knowing where he was. Barely remembering who he was.

He finally slumped on the sidewalk of a bakery for another half-hour. Until the shop-keeper came out and shooed him away. Sweeney stood, his legs half-buckling beneath him.

"Are you alright, sir?" A woman in a pink-bonnet stepped out of the shop, disentangling herself from her male companion.

She offered one of her white-gloved hands, and he took it.

"I don't deserve your kindness, miss." He brushed dirt and muck from his jacket and vest. She had a pretty complexion and a patient smile. Sweeney averted his gaze. It reminded him too much of his dead wife.

"I understand, sir," she said. "We all fall astray from God's path. Sometimes all we need is a good word to set us straight – "

Sweeney cut her off. "There is no God. And you had best heed it miss."

At this point, the gentleman with the hat-box stepped in, grasping his arm. "That is no way to speak to a Lady."

"You mistake me, _sir,"_ Sweeney spat sarcastically. "Where I come from, there are no ladies. They are all dead." He looked up at them then, fixing them with his burning stare.

The couple shrank back. It was as if they had been struck by the sight of the devil. The young woman stared, and retreated back into the shop. Her fiancé joined her.

Sweeney continued his wandering. He envied them all, and despised them all. All the laughter. The jokes. The complaints. The gossiping. Couldn't they see how foul the sky was? Couldn't they feel the biting wind?

At last, when the day's light had almost gone, Sweeney felt for the piece of paper in his trouser pocket. There was an address, written in Mrs Lovett's scrawly hand-writing. He read it once, and crumpled it.

Now, at least, Sweeney had a purpose. He was either going to kill her, or himself.

* * *

It didn't take long to find the Inn. When he mentioned Mrs Lovett, the man nodded lazily from his desk. "Number 13," he mumbled. The man didn't bother to get up, or ask for a name.

Sweeney took the stairs two at a time. He wasn't eager to see her. He just wanted to get it over with.

He felt for his razors. Yes, they were still with him. The cold silver promised blood. They always did. What was he going to do?

Live with the ghosts, or erase them?

He burst open the door. It wasn't locked.

There he saw her. Mrs Lovett. Half-curled up on the bed in a ridiculous gown.

He'd been planning something wild. Cut up the boy. Strangle Mrs Lovett. Hang himself.

But something stopped him.

Mrs Lovett sat up in shock, her eyes locked on his razors. "Mr T?"

In that silly dress, and with her hair done up like a doll, she looked like a child. A worn-out little girl. Immediately he thought of Joanna. How sometimes, when Lucy was worn-out with breast-feeding, he'd pick up the infant, and curl up beside her on the bed. Even then, Sweeney had imagined a future. He and Lucy picking out Joanna's party dresses. Taking her to dance. Ballet. Bead-making. Whatever they could scrape together, she would have. Could have had.

Now gone.

He wondered at that forlorn form sitting on the bed. Had she had a child once? Had she bought it baubles, promised it the world? He'd never thought to ask. Sweeney wasn't sure it mattered.

He knew he couldn't kill her now. It would be like killing Lucy. A second time.

"Mr T. You're here."

Did she realise what he'd been about to do? Would she have tried to stop him? Did she care anymore?

"Yes," he answered at last. The demon fire in him died. Sweeney lowered his tired arms, and the razors seemed to vanish in the dead grey light.

"I waited for ya," she said at last, rubbing her eyes and sitting up properly on the bed. She clasped her hands together, looking up at him expectantly.

He stood there. She continued to watch him with those sad eyes. They reminded him of a puppet. Exaggerated. Almost comical. But somehow more truthful than the masks that other people wore. Masks of refinement. Masks of civility.

"I forgive ya," she whispered, patting the space beside her on the bed. "Come, sit down love."

Sweeney didn't move. It didn't feel right. Sitting next to the woman he had almost slaughtered. "Forgive me?"

"For…for…gettin' drunk." She looked suddenly at the ground.

Sweeney blinked. Were they talking about the same thing?

"For….for…" Mrs Lovett trailed off.

He watched Mrs Lovett fiddling with one of her gloves, still averting his stare. Suddenly he remembered. Red curls brushing his skin. Pale, rough hands. Her wan lips inside his.

He couldn't remember much of what he'd said. But he'd wanted her to be ashamed. Ashamed for the looks she sometimes gave him. Ashamed to think she could stand by him. Ashamed to think she could ever be like Lucy.

Some of that drunken anger had faded. But Sweeney wasn't about to apologise. Not to a woman who made men into pies. Whatever he'd said, he'd meant it.

They sat in silence for a long time. The room had gone cold and dim.

"Well, Mr T," said Mrs Lovett, jumping up from the bed and putting on her best cheery face, "I might as well start a fire."

Sweeney looked at her. "Sit down."

She sat.

Sweeney preferred to look straight ahead at the mantelpiece, rather than meet her mournful face.

Mrs Lovett didn't have that kind of modesty. She kept her eyes steady on him. "Can I ask – "

"I'm not going to kill myself, Mrs Lovett."

"Well, that's a relief," she tittered.

"Is it?" Sweeney was thinking of hell. He couldn't think of any comfort death would bring. He couldn't imagine Lucy welcoming him home. Not after all that he'd done.

"Mr Todd," Mrs Lovett said, getting to her feet and raising her voice about five decibels. "Livin' with you is like livin' with Dr Jekyll an' Mr Hyde. This mornin' your one thing, tonight you're the next. All I want is some peace!"

"Don't we all, my pet." Sweeney moved to the window sill, looking down into the now emptying street.

Mrs Lovett froze at the sound of the nickname. She softened, and immediately sat. "We can't live like this, love. We'll need money, comin' in regular-like. We'll 'ave ta settle somewhere. We got a create a whole new lives for ourselves, that's wot. We gotta make them coppers forget we was ever on Fleet Street."

Sweeney moved away from the window sill. Oddly, it didn't matter what situation they were in. He was forever intrigued by Mrs Lovett's hair-brained schemes.

"What, Mrs Lovett, do you propose?"

Nellie couldn't hold off any longer. "We should get married," she blurted.

*** * ***

**I had to put this in, because it really has been a shocking past few days: R.I.P. Michael Jackson.**

**If you made it to the end of the chapter, you're my loyal Sweeney readers! Next chapter is going be interesting...Finally, I'm up to the wedding bells!**


	13. Taking the Plunge

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews/alerts/favs/silent reading! You guys rock! Finally, wedding bells are in the air for Sweeney and Nellie! Stripedpolkadots pretty much hit the nail on the head: _"Sweeny todd you have no choice. You may feel you do, but you don't."_ For those of you who may feel like beating Sweeney over the head with a sack of potatoes after this chapter (or a kettle he he) – take heart. Sweeney will get used to marriage. Really he well. He just needs some space. And his razors. =)**

**~Taking the Plunge~**

"Mr T."

Silence.

"Mr T!" Mrs Lovett tried again.

Silence.

"Did you hear wot I said? I said we should get married! Does that mean anything ter ya?"

It had been a long time since Sweeney had felt like being violently ill. Even his first murder, when he'd bludgeoned Signor Pirelli over the head with a kettle, hadn't produced the sort of ill effects he was feeling in his stomach at the sound of that horrid combination: _Married-to-Mrs Lovett._

"Just think, Mr T," she pleaded, ignoring the horrified expression on his face, "we'll have tea by the sea. And we won't waste naught. I can make ya bathers meself. I got the whole thing planned out in me head."

Mrs Lovett lay back on the bed, tapping her feet together and smiling childishly. But she wasn't looking at him. She was dreaming of a future. A future that included her fantasy Mr Todd. Not the real, sour Sweeney sitting beside her on the bed.

Sweeney only half-heard the rubbish she was spouting. Marriage. Always, he thought of Lucy. Sweeney didn't really remember the marriage ceremony. He had been too nervous. He'd mumbled his way through the marriage vows, but that hadn't seemed to bother Lucy. She'd smiled the same smile she'd always smiled. And then all her cousins and aunts and nephews had come over, congratulated them and cut up the cake. All of that was a blur to Sweeney. But he could remember their wedding night. How content he'd felt holding Lucy in his arms. It was the only time Lucy would let him see her undressed. That special, secret time. But never again. Prostitutes didn't entice Sweeney. He'd hadn't been with another woman since Lucy. And Mrs Lovett – whatever her _qualities_, he certainly couldn't imagine doing _that _with _her. _

And there she was, nattering away in the background. As if they were already married.

She was smiling at him now, a bright, painted smile that brightened the pink tulle of her dress. It made Sweeney sneer, because her infectious happiness reminded him of Lucy. Of how _he _had once felt that happy.

"I was thinking black-and-white stripes for ya bathers," she said. "Maybe a yellow bathing suit for Toby. Gad! Wot'll I wear? I _think_ we could afford rent o'right. If I start bakin' me signature ginga bread cookies, you know, them ones with the pink dresses and bow ties. Gotta get me recipe right, though. Somehow them poor little gingabread men always end up with their 'eads decapitated when they come outta th' oven."

"STOP IT!" Sweeney roared, getting to his feet. "Just SHUT IT!"

Mrs Lovett sat up and blinked in surprise. "Well, I always knew you was tentative, Mr T. But there's no need ta start shoutin' an' throwin' yer weight around."

"Yes, Mrs Lovett, there _is," _he snarled, "because you are sorely misguided. If you _ever_ imagined _we _could be married."

And there it was. He watched her face collapse into a crumpled "oh." Sweeney had thought it would bring him pleasure, but it only made him worse. He needed to get out of this room. The small space. Away from her bright dress. It looked as if she'd dressed up just for this moment. Just for _him. _It made him sick.

Mrs Lovett couldn't count the thoughts falling through her head. But she caught a couple of them. She saw herself sitting on the bed. Mr T gone. And her with the empty bottle of arsenic in her hand. "Can I ask you..why?" she said at last. _Why d'you find me so repulsive? _

"I don't love you, Mrs Lovett." Sweeney didn't look at her. "I'll never love you."

It was just as well.

Nellie's face couldn't have crumpled anymore than it already had. "I know," she said softly, after the silence stretched out before them like a tombstone, "I didn't expect yer to neitha." Nellie did her best not to cry. Apart from judges, kettles, and Toby, the next thing Sweeney couldn't stand were tears. Her tears.

Sweeney paced. "Then _why? Why ask me?"_ It was as if he were accusing her: _why drag up the memory of my dead wife? Why couldn't you let those happy memories die?_

Nellie collected her thoughts. But all she could think of was the truth she'd always known, but never wanted to hear: _I'll never love you. Never never never. Never Nellie. Never._

"Well, Mrs Lovett?" Sweeney stood over her, fully in command now. Now that he saw how pathetic she looked. Smiling sadly, like a clown in a tutu. Sweeney felt better now. She wasn't happy at all. Just as broken as he was.

"Think of it as business, Mr T," Mrs Lovett half-lied. "We can't buy or rent a place if people think we're ain't hitched. You know, if they think we're living-in-sin –"

"I get the picture Mrs Lovett." Much as he hated to admit it, Sweeney Todd probably would have gone to pieces on his own. He could barely tie his shoes by himself without Mrs Lovett to step in for him and finisht the job. He needed her around. At least, in the _background. _

"Well isn't that wot you 'ad in mind? We need ter find a place. An' we won't want any nosy busybodies tryin' to find out who we really is. So why don't we invent ourselves an' history?"

"_Ah._ Marriage."

"Yeah. We already 'ad the idea, 'memba? Our fake names wos Mr and Mrs Stowe. Sorta bland, I was thinkin' I've always fancied meself for a Crankshaw or Happlescotch but I'spose beggas can't be choosers –"

"Mrs Lovett!"

"Well it's th' perfect alibi, don't you think? An' as long as we kept ter ourselves, live somewhere nice an' quiet, no one'll suspect who we is."

"Ingenious," Sweeney said at last. "Practical, and yet appropriate as always, Mrs Lovett." Now that he realised Mrs Lovett wasn't throwing herself at him in some last-ditch effort for a husband and child – Sweeney could relax. He could deal with plotting. Plotting was his territory. Their territory. Sweeney gave a horrible, murderous smile.

But to Mrs Lovett, it was the most beautiful smile in the world. "Good love. I'm glad we agree. It'll be for the best, you'll see." She plastered on her own smile. But inside, she was crumpling. He can't stand me. He likes me evil thoughts. That's all. But 'e can't stand who I am!

At that moment, the door-knob turned, and Toby burst in the room. "Mum! I bought some sweets an' the lady gave me double for free cos she said I looked 'alf-starved an' then – " His face fell when he saw Sweeney standing there.

"Get him out of here," Sweeney said dangerously.

"_Love_," Mrs Lovett warned Toby.

Toby entered the room anyway, bearing a paper-bag filled with sweets.

"I didn't do nuffin'," Toby said obnoxiously. "If it's anyone who should leave, it's you! Speakin' like a rite pig-in-mud, you is!"

Sweeney knelt down so that he was eye-level with the child. "Give me anymore cheek, an it'll be the slaughter-house for you, boy."

"I'm not scared of you! You might scare mum, but not me!"

"_Love," _Mrs Lovett hissed. "Keep it down!"

Toby was raising his voice far too much for Sweeney's liking. He grabbed the boy by the collar, and squeezed his free hand so that the boy could feel the bones pushed together. "I _will_ kill you boy. Don't encourage me."

They stared at each other for a few long seconds.

"Really, you two," Mrs Lovett cut in. "Wot childish nonsense is this!" Privately, she was cursing Toby. Why did the boy have to come in and ruin it all?

"You'd best be goin' now, Mr Todd," Toby said, clutching his bag of sweets.

"Of course, boy," Sweeney sneered. He was glad to get out of the room. He could only handle the human race for so many hours in a day. "One day," he said to the boy, "I'll see you in hell." How he _hated_ that child. At the threshold, he turned and paused. "Tomorrow, 6 am Mrs Lovett. Don't be tardy."

Mrs Lovett nodded. "At the altar, Mr T. I'll be waitin' for yer."

*******

It was only after he'd gone, Mrs Lovett realised the weight sitting on her head. "I thought he'd make me feel better. But now I feel like I'm one 'is dead customers, lyin' back with me throat slit."

"Want a toffee mum? They always 'elp me." Toby was already a quarter of the way through the bag.

"No thanks, love." She flopped back on the bed, and wondered what on earth she was doing to herself. Following around a ghost of a man.

"Why d'ya hate me, Mr T?" Mrs Lovett found herself saying softly. Toby sat on the bed with her, and watched her cry.

********

**Ok…..where's my sack of potatoes!….if YOU feel like smacking Sweeney after reading this, review!**


	14. The Wedding

**A/n: WOW. You guys were certainly brutal towards poor, troubled Sweeney. I'm surprised he's able to get up and keep going after the beating we all gave him! Although, he did sort of deserve it. Toby's definitely going to have some psychological issues when he grows up. Moving along, let's get this wedding started! But please, don't throw the sack of the potatoes at _me_ for not making this really lovey-dovey. Just because they're getting married doesn't mean Sweeney's going to go all sappy Anthony doe-eyed on us, ok? Ok!**

**~The Wedding~**

It was 6am in the sleepy little town, but nobody was sleeping. Out on the streets, farmers, fruit sellers, milk maidens, school children, barbers, bakers, candle-stick makers – everyone was out and about, spilling here and there, buying this and that. Only the lazy, and the filthy rich were still in bed.

Sweeney Todd was one of those early birds. Except today he wasn't working. He was waiting. Inside a church, of all places. It was the oddest feeling, Sweeney felt, to be standing before an altar for the _second_ time in his life. He could imagine, in the dim, little gasps of yellow dawn that spilled through the stain-glass windows, that at any minute Lucy Barker might come floating through those arched doors, arisen from the dead.

He waited.

Predictably, nothing happened. Sweeney could sum up the last fifteen years of his life as one great, monotonous _nothing. _Except killing the Judge, of course.

The silence dragged. It wasn't just Mrs Lovett's absence Sweeney noticed. The priest was late too.

When he'd visited the church last night, Sweeney had specifically told him to be _early. _It wasn't because Sweeney was excited to be married. He'd spent all night tossing and turning, wondering if Lucy _knew_ he was betraying her. Tying the knot again. The whole thing was a sham, but that wasn't the point. Sweeney had gone out on a limb. Hadn't he agreed to go along with Mrs Lovett's hare-brained scheme? Hadn't he hired the chapel, paid for the priest, organised himself a wedding suit? He'd even gone to the jeweller's, just before closing time, and picked out a plain gold band for Mrs Lovett to wear.

And he didn't even _love_ the damned woman. She could at least have the decency to turn up on time, Sweeney thought, thoroughly annoyed. Didn't _anyone_ respect the institution of marriage anymore? Judging from Mrs Lovett's tardiness, it didn't appear so.

Sweeney took out his silver pocket watch. Mrs Lovett had bought it for him on some special occasion, he vaguely remembered. He checked the little hand, and snapped it back up.

_Fifteen minutes late, _Sweeney growled. What in devil's name could be keeping her?

**~_Back at the Inn~_**

"Today is the day, it's me happiest o' days," Nellie sang, twirling about like a whirling dervish in her wedding gown. "Today, today, is me weddin' day!"

"Mum, 'old still," Toby scolded, "your gettin' the train all twisted!"

Nellie stopped twirling and turned red. "Sorry love, I just can't 'elp it. I've neva felt this 'appy in me life, 'cept for when Mr T showed up at me doorstep, an' then later on –" She was about to add _when Lucy died,_ but fell to singing again.

"Yes, mum? Later on when?" Toby smiled childishly.

"Now, Toby, this isn't the time for chit-chat. Hurry up and fix me crown o' flowas, there's a good lad!"

While Toby scrambled over the bed covers, searching for where he'd put Mrs Lovett's crown of violets, Mrs Lovett stopped twirling and looked herself over in the mirror.

Her gown was simple. Nellie called it her emergency gown. Back in London, she'd kept it stuffed under her mattress, in case some dashing gentleman stole her heart and asked her to elope. She didn't alter her make-up too much. There was no point lightening her eyes any, since those heavy bags weren't going away any time soon. And she certainly wasn't going to wake up one morning with sea-blue eyes like Lucy. Nellie added a dash of kohl to the bottom and top rims of her eyes (really it was a jar of soot Nellie had collected from her fire-place) and that was that.

No miracle elixirs were going to transform her back to her youth, when she'd been married at twenty-one. It hadn't been the best wedding anyway, Nellie consoled herself. She'd married Albert, for one, instead of Benjamin Barker. And she'd known barely any of the guests (all Albert's side of the family). To really put the icing on the cake, Nellie had cried at the reception. Albert's parents thought it was charming. If only they knew.

Nellie hadn't cried from joy. She cried out of despair. Despair over losing Benjamin Barker –

"Mum, you ready?" Toby stood close to the mirror, holding the violet crown out like a peace offering.

"'Course love," Nellie said, smiling. Well, she had no more reason to despair. She was finally getting what she'd wished and clamoured and prayed for all these years.

"There." Toby settled the violet crown atop Mrs Lovett's wild, red mop, and stepped back. The curtains were drawn in the dingy room, and a ray of light hit Mrs Lovett's face. She looked marvellous. "You look like one of them fairies, mum. Fit enough ter be dancin' about in the wood, I shouldn't wonder."

"Aw love," Nellie said, finding herself a tad misty-eyed, "you're a sweet thing. Now, wot's that tradition go? Somethin' old, an' somethin' new, somethin' borrowed, an – "

"Somethin' blue!" Toby finished. "An old woman used to sing it to me in the poor 'ouse."

"That's nice dear," Nellie said, not really listening. She was on the floor now, hunting through her suitcase in the search for something blue. Her dress was old. Couldn't have a widow wearing white now, could they? "The violets are new," Nellie supposed. "All flowers are new, till they're dead. Wot about somethin' blue? "Somethin' blue, somethin' blue, Christ in heaven where's somethin' blue?!"

At last, Nellie found one of her blue hair pins, and stuffed it among her red curls.

"You'll need somethin' borrowed, Mum," Toby said, producing something from his pocket.

"Wot's that there, love?" Nellie took Toby's hand, and stared. She gasped.

It was a pair of white lace gloves. The decoration was an intricate rose pattern. Nellie was a decent seamstress herself – but she'd never done anything as fine, or dreamed of _having_ anything as fine – as them.

"Them gloves Toby!" Was all Mrs Lovett could say. "Where – wait, don't tell me where! I don't wanna 'ear it!"

"Well mum," Toby said, a charming little smirk lighting his face, "you said yestaday you needed somethin' borrowed. An these is borrowed. Sorta."

Nellie put a finger to his lips. "It'll be me and your secret." And Nellie slipped on the gloves, proud as could be. She now felt like a proper bride.

_Fifteen minutes later…_

Nellie was going to be late. She knew it. They were at least fifteen minutes late. "Out of my way!" Mrs Lovett bellowed as she outmanoeuvred traffic on the street. Toby ran behind her, carrying her train above the mud.

It didn't help though. They were late. Mr T would be furious.

_**~Back at the Church~**_

She was dead, Sweeney Todd supposed. It was the only conclusion he could come to. Mrs Lovett had been brutally murdered along the way, or tripped and killed herself on the stairs. Probably falling over her enormous train, Sweeney smirked. It was the only explanation. No sane woman, especially not one as clingy as Mrs Lovett, would be late for their own wedding.

Not thirty-five minutes late.

And now Sweeney was stuck with a horrible, oversized man that stunk like a fish-market. The priest.

Sweeney sat at the far end of the bench. It was unfortunate he didn't have his razors on him. They, at least, amused him. Instead, he was forced to stare at that unexciting specimen of human being standing by the church altar, humming away like a fool. He was a jovial man. That was _one_ reason Sweeney couldn't stand him. Almost as jovial as Mrs Lovett, he thought sickeningly. He had a small head, and a fat, beach-ball stomach that no amount of slimming black cloth could disguise. He wore thin little spectacles but they did nothing to mask thin lips, a button nose and irregular, close-set eyes. Sweeney frowned. Priests shouldn't hum, he thought.

Naturally, the priest was humming out of nervousness. He didn't like being left waiting with the groom for the bride to arrive. It put the groom in a foul mood, and from the looks of this gentleman, he was in a foul mood. Every time the priest looked up, he saw Sweeney, staring at him as if he were a large foul sitting on a plate. I _must_ make this man stop staring, thought the priest nervously. Perhaps he just needs a little calming down. The priest took deep breath, and took the plunge. "Little old to be sowing the seed, aren't we?" he began.

Sweeney sat there, twisting the chain of his pocket watch. After a while he realised he'd been spoken to. "I beg your pardon?

_Bad idea, bad idea, _the priest thought. But God would want him to be brave, he thought, and the priest continued on his path to stupidity. "Well, if you don't mind my saying, my good man, you're not exactly young, are you?

Sweeney stared. "I'm a widower."

"Sorry, sir. Deeply sorry for your loss. But they do say, sir, that one's second time is always better. Experience, and all that. Especially if she's young and pretty. Although I must say, I haven't had to taste the hells of married life."

Silence. Sweeney decided he didn't like churches.

_This is going nowhere, _thought the priest miserably. Suddenly he brightened. "Is she young and pretty?"

"She's a widow."

_Drat! I must salvage the wreck. Flatter him, flattery always works. _"Oh. I am sorry, sir. If you don't mind me saying, however, I think it's a fine thing, what you're about to do."

Silence.

"Sir?"

"I'm afraid I don't quite take your meaning." _Where is she?_ Sweeney was getting the murder-jitters. _If she doesn't get here, I'm going to wring someone's neck._

"Well sir," the priest said nervously, trying his utmost to meet Sweeney's threatening gaze, "I think it's a f-f-fine, noble thing. Marrying…a w-w-idow."

"And what, sir, is so troublesome about that?" _I must not kill, I must not kill, _Sweeney repeated to himself. Lucy wouldn't want it. Not in a church. As soon as he's _outside_ the church, however –

"Forgive me in advance, sir, but, how should I put this, it takes a _certain_ temperament, to shackle oneself to…used goods."

"Are you saying my bride is unworthy?" Sweeney challenged.

It would take a brave, or exceedingly stupid man, to ignore such a warning and blunder on. "N-n-not at all! I just think you're v-v-ery noble," said the priest stupidly.

"I don't wonder," Sweeney growled. "She's mute." Sweeney congratulated himself on a nice white lie. He'd explain to Mrs Lovett when she arrived. But it was clever, Sweeney thought. The idea of Mrs Lovett getting married in complete silence.

"Mute?"

"You'd be astounded by how quiet she can be. _At certain times_."

Nellie was just adjusting her veil when she burst in the church. 'Clumsy boy," she scolded loudly. "Couldn't watch where you put yer feet, an' now you've gone an' trampled all ova me train!"

"Sorry mum," Toby said, lifting the train as high as possible.

"You must excuse me," Sweeney said abruptly. "I require a moment alone with my bride."

The priest nodded. "As you please, sir."

*** * ***

Sweeney took her aside, right to the end of the church pew, and gripped her hand. "You're thirty-five minutes late," he growled.

From afar, it appeared to be a gesture of loving affection. Only Nellie could feel the bones in her hand being slowly crushed. "Mr T" she gasped. "I'm sorry! But I couldn't help it! I had to find somethin' old an' somethin' new – "

"Mrs Lovett," said Sweeney, gritting his teeth together, "you _try_ my patience. Do you know how much _trouble _I went to, to execute this plan? It was, after all, _your _idea."

"Right you are love," said Mrs Lovett, suddenly embarrassed. "Sorry."

He let go of her hand, and did something unexpected. He put his hands across the pew in front of him, and rested his head on top.

"We'll need a minute!" Nellie sang out. She cocked her head, and studied him. He scrubbed up alright, she realised, wot with his hair all neat for once and no blood stains on his collar. Quite a handsome catch, she thought –

"I'm a fool," Sweeney said bitterly, mumbling into the pew.

Nellie slid close to him, and mirrored his pose so that their shoulders touched. "Silly man," Nellie whispered, wanting nothing more than to lean in and kiss him. It was rare to see Mr T like this. "Wot makes you say that?"

"Somehow I assumed they would disappear. Once I'd done away with the Judge." Sweeney was staring at something only he could see, as usual.

"Wot would disappear, love?"

"The nightmares." Sweeney studied the ground, and began to notice the ends of the delicate wedding dress. It reminded him of Lucy's gown. "I've lost her," he muttered. "She won't speak to me. She used to, long ago. When I dreamed."

"Love," said Nellie with a strange firmness in her voice. She put her hand on Sweeney's arm. "You isn't the only one to dream bad dreams."

Sweeney felt the touch on his arm. It jolted him. It wasn't Mrs Lovett he recognised, but human touch. He'd forgotten it. It had been a long while since he'd been touched. With tenderness. It reminded him of holding Joanna over her crib, of caressing Lucy before he went out the door –

"-an' that's why I always 'ave bad dreams," Mrs Lovett finished, quite out of breath. And now she was just sitting there, quite close, staring at him as if he was the most fascinating specimen on the planet.

"Mrs Lovett." Sweeney didn't know how to phrase it. But she seemed – _changed_. Her normally untidy locks were neat and glistening. A vibrant chain of violets crowned her head. Sweeney had been concerned she would make a spectacle of herself. Come in some foolishly elaborate gown. Mutton done up as lamb, was what they'd called it back in the colony. But she had some sense, Sweeney credited her. Wherever she'd fished it out from, the plain gown did her justice. It wasn't virgin white, but a soft, fairy lavender, and gathered itself in Grecian pleats. She looked so far removed from London and her stinking pie shop, Sweeney could almost forget for one moment that this woman was his partner-in-crime. That she'd skinned people and ground them up for a living. Until she spoke.

"Yes, dear?"

Sweeney looked down at her gloves. Lace, he realised, as if he were a child learning new names and colours.

"Your hair is red," he mumbled.

"It's always been red."

"Good, then," Sweeney grunted.

Nellie wanted the moment to go on and on. But she knew it wouldn't. It couldn't. Fortune had never favoured her. The last thing she wanted was a broody Mr T harping on about his dead Lucy.

"No time like the present then, ay?"

Sweeney nodded. Seeing as Mrs Lovett's train was immeasurably long, he bent down slightly, and took it up. It would do no good for her to trip and kill herself before they even reached the altar.

"What is _that?" _Nellie whispered, as they walked carefully up the aisle. All she could see was a giant stomach and a small head.

Sweeney glared distastefully at the priest. Suddenly he grinned. "It's priest."

Mrs Lovett turned in surprise, her brows shooting up. He _didn't_. "Is it really good?" she sang under her breath.

"Ma'am, it's _too_ good, at least."

"Are you hungry, Mrs Lovett?"

"I must say, I'm _famished, _Mr Todd."

Sweeney grinned.

It showed his cracks and wrinkles and madness, but Nellie didn't care. This was Sweeney, and a grin was as rare as rubies. She burst into laughter. "Mr T," she whispered, linking her arm with his, "I _don't _believe it. Did you just crack a joke?"

Over by the altar, the Priest was beginning to get a little nervous. The couple _seemed_ happy enough, but there was something that disturbed him. Something the priest couldn't _quite_ put his finger on. The groom was decidedly creepy. _That_ was already established. And the bride. She smiled quite a lot. But there was something _off_ about her too. "Nice to see you two have a sense of humour," he said. "May I be privy to the joke?"

"I'm sorry sir. You'd have to be a _widower _to grasp the fine _delicacy_ of the humour."

"Ah, I see," fumbled the priest, not really seeing at all. In his dim-witted brain, he had the _slightest_ suspicion that he was being made fun of. And it frightened him. "Well, please," he stammered, "you two have waited long enough. Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Sweeney nodded, and took something shiny out of his pocket. Mrs Lovett's eyes bulged. It _couldn't_ be –

"Do you take this woman –" the priest began.

"Hang on!" Mrs Lovett snapped. "Wot you playin' at? We 'aven't even done the vows yet an' we're up to the "I do's!"

Sweeney took her lace-gloved hands in his. He was eager to get _out_ of this uncomfortable situation, and there was only one way he perceived of doing it. "This is what counts _legally, _am I right?" He turned to the priest.

The priest nodded, swallowing hard. He would be happy if he _never_ saw the man again.

"Well, when you put it like that," Nellie stammered, suddenly nervous before Sweeney's intense stare.

"Do you take this woman –"

"Eleanor," Nellie said proudly.

"Is that all? Don't you have a last name?" The priest offered.

"That will go on the marriage certificate, which _you_ will oversee," Sweeney ordered.

"Very well. Do you take this woman, Eleanor, to be your _lawfully _wedded wife?"

"I do," Sweeney said gruffly.

"And do you –" the priest nodded at Nellie, "take this man –" the priest waited. "Your name, sir?"

Sweeney stared.

"As you wish," the priest stumbled. "Do you, Eleanor, take _this man, _to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I _do_," Nellie sang, her lips quivering.

Sweeney grasped her hand, and quickly slipped on the gold band before he could regret it.

"You may now kiss the bride," the priest finished, wondering _who_ on earth would want to kiss either of them.

"Oh Mr T," Nellie gushed, and before Sweeney could stop her, she bent forward and gave him a kiss on the lips.

_One, two, three, four, _Sweeney counted, but it wasn't over fast enough. He didn't want to throttle her in public, but if she clung to his mouth for one more minute Sweeney was certainly going to pass out.

"Ahem," the priest said finally, and Nellie drew back, blushing intensely. "Well, that's that then."

In five minutes, he'd copied out their names onto a certificate, and they'd signed it. The priest didn't believe the names they'd written down were _real_, but he was a priest, not a judge.

"Today, today, is me weddin' day!" Nellie sang as they exited the church. "Can we get a cake, Mr T? Just this once, to celebrate?"

Toby trailed behind them, looking fairly glum. He didn't like Sweeney anywhere near his mum, and certainly not linked arm in arm.

"_No_," Sweeney said. "And for the _last_ time, Mrs Lovett, we are _not_ buying turtledoves. If you do," he said evilly, "I'll wring their necks."

*** * ***

**Awwwww! At long last, they're hitched! And don't tell me you aren't hungry for a little priest. Admit it. =D**


	15. By the Sea

**A/N: WARNING: The Following Chapter _will _contain singing. It may be sung-off key (Mrs Lovett), it may be painful (for Sweeney) and it may be badly written (by me) – but I felt I just couldn't write a chapter by the Seaside _without_ a little musical harmony. I think Mrs Lovett deserves it since her film By-the-sea fantasy goes up in flames. Thanks again awesomely to _F8WUZL8, ncsigirl, stripedpolkadots, Roni-Baby, cookie-monster101, DarkDreamer97_ and _vertigeaux_ for taking the time to review, and the rest of my lovely readers!**

**~By the Sea~**

It was the day Sweeney Todd had been dreading ever since they'd fled London. It was probably up there in his nightmares of going to hell and being ignored by Lucy when he died.

It was _worse_ than marrying Mrs Lovett. It was _worse_ than her kissing him.

"Come on, Mr T, just a quick stop by the sea?"

"No." Sweeney wasn't budging. He was going to sit _here_, until the damned coach came to take them to the damn village. Sweeney Todd did _not_ do holidays.

Mrs Lovett went and plopped down on the roadside bench beside her new husband. Her heart was fit to burst, but she never in her wildest fantasies thought to _tell_ him this. Mr T knew about as much of the workings of the human heart as a seagull knew how to catch its own food.

He was simply _hopeless _in these sort of matters. It was up to her, Nellie decided, as his new wife, to help him out. "Ya see, Mr T, it just ain't 'ealthy, a fine man wot you is sittin' by yerself gloomy as a chimney stack on a 'appy day like this. Don't ya wanna 'ave some fun?"

"_No."_ Sweeney Todd certainly did _not_ want to "have some fun". He snuck a glance at Mrs Lovett. She was sitting there on the sunny bench, scrunching up the corners of her wedding dress and smiling out at the world.

_How did she do it?_ Sweeney wondered. Surely she had seen some dark days in London all those years? What with her Albert passing on, and having to make a livelihood however she could. The barber's eyes drifted over the pale collarbone and her sparrow neck. She wouldn't have survived all those years selling only _pies,_ he decided with satisfaction. How could she find any light in the world, thought Sweeney, continuing his train of thought, after what they'd accomplished between the two of them?

It didn't matter how far away he got from those foul streets and fouler human beings. It didn't matter, Sweeney realised, because the sun might come, the flowers might bloom, but wherever they ran the ghosts would always follow along. How could he shake off the past, when every shade of gold, the dandelions on the roadside, Mrs Lovett's gleaming wedding ring – even the rays of sun – all of it reminded him of Lucy.

"Please yerself then." He heard Mrs Lovett sigh. She got up lightly, dusting imaginary specs from her dress, and called for Toby.

The boy, taller and lankier than Sweeney had previously remembered, came bursting out of the nearby shop. "Sorry mum," he said, half-gorging himself on a helping of fudge, "is we off ta the sea now?"

Mrs Lovett blushed. "Well – you and me is – Mr T can do wot he pleases."

And with that she picked up her red suitcase, and began to traipse down the gravelly road.

It was no mean feat either, considering the length of her train. Toby ran after her, gathering up the train in his free arm. He shot a nasty look back at Sweeney Todd.

"Should've killed the priest when I had the chance," Sweeney muttered. He stood staring at the dandelions swaying in the sun for half an hour. Eventually he got up, and ground the flowers under his boot. He followed the trail of the dirt road – down where the shops and houses ended in a smooth curve. He followed a cobblestone wall all the way down the steep track.

Up ahead, he could the shining dimple of the bay. It was a fine day, and the water glistened as bright as Sweeney's razors. He went down, down where the row boats lined the cliff-side and seaside stalls ran right up to the pier.

It wasn't as if he had anything better to do.

Sweeney stood awkwardly by the stalls. There was a crowd of people, and of course Sweeney hated crowds. He hated the sweat and mixture of different smells. He hated people's voices, some loud, low, others high-pitched and caterwauling – all spilling over each other like tides meeting under a headland.

He was tempted to move along down to the more deserted part of the beach – there were people everywhere. But something prevented him. There, Sweeney saw, squinting his eyes along the sand. A woman in a long gown was laying out a picnic blanket. A skinny boy, almost as tall as her, was playing with a ball.

It _had_ to be Mrs Lovett. And the boy.

So Sweeney stayed with the crowd. He turned his attention briefly, disinterested, to the stalls.

There was an ice-cream stall. Another one was selling coffees and cream. Another sold fish-and-chips. The smells all fused together with the sea brine.

Sweeney was almost tempted to purchase a strong black coffee. He needed it – but when he fished through his pockets, he found nothing but dust – and his razors of course.

"I'll take three of 'em strawberry things," said the woman in front of him, a gaudily dressed creature in red.

"You mean these, lady," said the ice-cream man, shovelling his scoop into the tub.

She paid, and as she was taking the cones away, the man grinned and winked at her. "Bless you pretty miss. All your days will be yours!"

_All your days will be yours. _Sometime, long ago, someone had said those very words to Sweeney Todd. Only now in the sunlight, the past seemed far away. His razors were with him, but the blood – and the necks he'd bled, so tenderly – all of it was a distant dream.

"Come on man," the ice-cream was shouting at him. "Don't just stand there. What'll you have?"

Sweeney blinked. "I – "

Behind him, a young mother was jigging her baby on her waist. It began to bawl. "Come on mistah, wot is you dumb or somefin'? Can't you see I got a babe in me arms!"

It was all too much for Sweeney. The melting sun on his forehead, the strange smells, the yelling – and now the woman, with a child as fair as Joanna, was screeching at him. Hadn't he promised, long ago, to take Lucy and Joanna to the sea? Hadn't he promised them, promised them?

"Sir, if you ain't gonna buy, get outta the way!"

At the sound of fury, Sweeney felt his blood pound in response. He thrust his hand into his pocket, and felt for his friend. Surely one more throat could be spilt –

"Ah! There you is Mr T! We wos beginnin' ta get worried – " Mrs Lovett showed up out of nowhere, her face flushed pink from the sun. She snaked a protective arm through his, and led him straight up to the stall.

"Wot's goin' on?" The young mother complained.

"Oh put a can innit!" Mrs Lovett said, both to her and the screaming infant.

Neither of them were expecting that, and they shut up.

"Now, sir, me apologies," she said to the ice-cream man, "but me husband wos just mindin' me spot in line."

"You two are newlyweds?" The ice-cream man eyed her wedding dress.

"Yes we is," Mrs Lovett said proudly. "We'll have two vanilla ice creams, and a little tub o' fries, please sir."

Sweeney knew very well that they didn't have any money left. But Mrs Lovett pretended to fish around in her satin pouch, and then turned to him. "Seems I musta left it back at the inn. Wot about you love?" Mrs Lovett turned to him.

Sweeney shook his head.

"Aw wot a shame," Mrs Lovett said, burying her head in Sweeney's shoulder. "Wot a right fool I is, draggin' you 'ere in the hot sun an' makin' ya stand an' now we ain't got the money – "

"Hang on," said the ice-cream man, quickly shovelling two scoops of vanilla into cones and grabbing a tub of fries. "I ain't a cruel man. It's your wedding day miss, and bless you for it. Enjoy." He handed her the cones and chips, and Mrs Lovett swept them and Sweeney together away deftly.

"There now love," she said, handing him his cone sweetly, "no 'arm done."

"I nearly killed him," Sweeney blurted, when they got back to their picnic blanket along the more deserted stretch of beach.

"Wot?"

"You heard me. He was right there, and I imagined his throat beneath me….guiding the blade across the skin – "

Mrs Lovett knitted her brows, and withdrew her arm from his. For once she actually looked angry. "Now listen 'ere Mr T. I don't care wot problems you 'as. We all 'ave 'em. But you 'ad betta start learnin' ta reign them demons in, or we is up for some big trouble. We already 'as the law onta us – 'ow long d'you reckon we'll last if you start bleedin' throats left right an' centre?"

He stared at his ice-cream, and let the vanilla melt down the sides of the cone and fall into his lap. It was the same movement blood made, dripping down his razors, he thought.

"I can't help it," was all Sweeney could say.

"Yes you bloody can!" Mrs Lovett shouted.

A few children playing in the water turned and stared.

"Did you think a change of scenery would change anything, Mrs Lovett?" Sweeney looked at his ice-cream, but he couldn't eat it.

In the end Mrs Lovett sighed, and got up to look for Toby. "He can 'ave yer icecream then, you miserable old sod," she said, snatching the dripping mess out of his hand.

"Ere Toby," Mrs Lovett said, handing him both the ice-creams, "you can 'ave both me ice-creams. I'm off for a swim."

Toby's eyes lit up, and he attacked them greedily. "Thanks mum!" He guessed there were _some_ perks to married life.

*** * ***

At first it was just the splashing that caught Sweeney's attention. He'd been lying back on the blanket, staring defiantly into that hot, cruel sun – when he'd began to _listen_ to the sounds of the sea. He sat up, propping his elbows on the edge of the sand.

It was Mrs Lovett, making a spectacle of herself, as usual. She was splashing around on the edge of the shore, still dressed in her wedding dress. The sun seemed to coat her pale arms, turning them a golden-yellow. The same colour as Lucy's hair. She was laughing. He didn't know why.

No one else was near her. He didn't know what she could possibly find to be happy about.

She turned instinctively, as if she knew he was staring at her. She smiled slightly – a quirky, half-smile. "It's lovely Mr T, come an' swim!"

When this got no response, she shrugged her shoulders, and turned her back to him. His eyes wandered. The boy was over by the cliff-side, where all the boats were strung up. He was stuffing himself with the rest of the ice-creams. Other children were playing on the beach. One sickening looking couple were holding hands under a large red umbrella.

He swung back to see if Mrs Lovett had drowned herself yet. He had a strong suspicion she couldn't swim. Sweeney frowned. She wasn't swimming. She was _undressing._

In the middle of a public beach. She wasn't naked – but that wasn't the _point. _Obviously, Mrs Lovett being a practical woman, she'd decided that swimming in a gown wasn't the way to go. So she'd stripped off, leaving nothing much to the imagination except a pair of bright red bloomers and a vanilla corset with little puffed sleeves. He wanted to kill her. And she'd had the _nerve_ to lecture _him_ about cutting throats!

"Mrs Lovett," he called furiously. "Come _here."_

She ran up to him like a puppy after her master. Her hair was dripping wet, and her bare arms were bathed in sand. "Yes, Mr T?"

"Don't _ever_ pull a stunt like that again," he said, dragging her down onto the picnic blanket.

"A stunt like wot?" said Mrs Lovett, looking perplexed.

Could she really be so daft? "If you want to get caught, you're doing fine," Sweeney spat, "flouncing around the beach like a whore. Put this on," he said taking off his black suit coat and throwing it over her shoulders. He could only _hope_ no one had seen her.

They sat there in silence together, saying nothing for a long time. He was staring up at the sun, and she – she had her eyes on the waves of the sea. They bounced gently, so completely carefree Nellie wondered why it was that nature was made so free and easy – and yet people came along with so many bloody strings.

"Mr T," she said suddenly, reaching over to place a tender hand on his thigh. "Tell me wot you're thinkin'."

Sweeney felt like squirming. "I already told you." The idea of her touching him – when it was his Lucy he'd dreamed of coming home to all theses years – depressed Sweeney intensely.

_Ah yes_, Nellie thought, that same old subject. Ova and ova, is Lucy, Lucy, Lucy. If the sea doesn't cheer 'im up, she wondered despairingly, wot will? Then, it suddenly occurred to her.

Nellie snuggled up closer to him on the blanket, not caring what sort of reaction he might have. She plopped the tub of fries between them to share. Wot 'e needs is a little tune ta lift 'is spirits!

And she began to sing:

_"We'll get by Mr Todd,_

_We'll get by,_

_We'll get by,_

_Mr Todd,_

_'ave another fry,_

_We'll get by Mr T,_

_Tell you why?"_

Sweeney stared at her. She was _singing_. How do I make her stop? "Why?" he asked.

Nellie smiled, swaying her head along with the bobbing waves.

_"Coz there's no rats 'neath the table,_

_And today my love,_

_I'm more than able."_

Sweeney edged a little further backward on the blanket. "Able?"

She leaned closer in, looking up him seductively. "_Able."_

Sweeney twisted uncomfortably, looking upwards, side-wards, and finally setting for a shrub over in the sand dunes.

_"Come with me, Mr T,_

_And I'll show you a time_

_Wot is betta than the sea,_

_And you'll forget about Lucy,_

_An' all them otha things –_

Lucy, Sweeney heard, snatching onto the word. _"Lu-cy?"_

Nellie batted her eyes. "Who's she?"

"_My wife."_

_"Who's dead and gone to 'eaven –_

_(Now in hell)",_ Nellie muttered.

_"Don't you see, Mr T,_

_You could 'ave anotha life,_

_Get yerself anotha wife,_

_Add a bit suga to ya spice."_

Nellie paused thoughtfully, playing with the threads on the blanket and snatching glances up at him.

_"Oh it would be so nice_

_To get married twice – "_

She latched onto Sweeney:

_"Don't nothin' entice you no more?"_

Sweeney only half-listened to her song. "No more," he echoed.

_"Look up, Mr T,_

_Wot's more,_

_We ain't poor no more,_

_We got moneys in our drawer,_

_Don't ya wanna see wot life 'as in store?_

_Wif you, an' me,_

_By that place called the sea,_

_Ignorant as bliss,_

_Don't you long for a kiss –_

_Wif me?"_

_Say, love, wot'll it be?"_

But Nellie never got her answer. Sweeney Todd was fast asleep.

*** * ***

Sweeney woke up to find his head half buried in sand.

It was half-light, and the sun was just breaking over the ocean. He looked around. The beach was empty.

On the sand was the boy, his head curled up near Mrs Lovett's feet. Mrs Lovett was curled up near _him, _her hand thrown over his knee. "Mrs Lovett?"

He shook her awake, throwing off her arm.

"Yes, love?" she mumbled, stretching.

"Where are we?"

Nellie sat up, regarding him sadly. She sang softly:

_"Ah, Mr Todd, you make me sick,_

_You an' yer 'ead so thick,_

_Won't you stop yer mournin'?_

_Coz it's almost mornin',_

_An' the sun is dawnin' -_

_Ain't you hear tears is borin'?_

_Come, love, sit,_

_Sit 'ere wif me."_

When he didn't move, Nellie edged herself closer again.

"Wot you thinkin' Mr T?" Mrs Lovett said after a while.

_"Nothing,"_ he lied.

"Yes you is," Mrs Lovett insisted. "I can see them great big wheels is turnin' in yer 'ead."

"Lucy," he found himself whispering. He got up, brushing last night's sand from his suit.

Mrs Lovett stirred, a sudden anxiety gripping her. "Wait Mr T – wot, wot about you an' me?"

For the sixtieth time in less than two days, Sweeney felt his blood rise in his chest again. Would this woman ever give him peace? He was going to have to put it to her plain.

"I've told you Mrs Lovett repeatedly before,

There can be _no _love for your kind nor mine –

There is _no love_

Between you and me.

_Oh, my Lucy_."

The barber turned his back and walked down the length of the beach. He was wandering anywhere, _anywhere_ to get away from the memory of women. Pretty women.

"_By the sea, Mr T_," Nellie sang softly to herself, watching dawn break by herself. "_By the sea."_

*** * ***

**God don't you just want to smack Sweeney upside the head with a smelly fish?**

**I got inspiration for this chappy after I went to the beach today, my nutty friends and I were wearing Mrs Lovett's crazy tights and acting like general nut-jobs.**

**I think we scared a lady and her dog O_O.**

**Anyway, I'm just curious, since DarkDreamer97 has a cottage – where do you all live?**

**I live about 200 metres from the beach =D**

**It's normally smashing, except for the random tsunami warning we got a few days ago. X_X.**


	16. Sundown

**A/N: Ready for another chapter of EMO SWEENEY ANGST??!! One thousand APOLOGIES for my slackness, but yes, Devil's Angel 92, I am _definitely _continuing! You'll have to tie me up in Sweeney's barber chair and pop me into one of Mrs Lovett's juicy meat pies to stop me from writing these two into a couple! I'm just warming up!  
**

**~ Sundown~  
**

* * *

Sweeney Todd spent the rest of the afternoon brooding on the seashore.

It was his special time. When the sun got dark, he could feel all the unhappiness in him well up and spill over into the world around him. Anything was possible, he felt.

Sweeney could even hope, as he sat there carving his razors into the compact sand – perhaps he would see Lucy again someday? In the afterlife, of course – but Sweeney could still hope.

"Mr T!"

Of course, someone would always interrupt him. Sweeney looked up from his cuts in the sand. Mrs Lovett was standing there in her undergarments, completely soaked and sand-splattered. She was beaming – and Sweeney frowned. What right had she to _beam_ at him, when he was busy brooding?

"_What_ is it, Mrs Lovett?"

Nellie flinched. He was frowning at her, taking in her soggy bloomers and corset, her tousled hair and sandy skin. Lucy would never have allowed herself to be so _improperly _dressed in public, Nellie thought. The poor thing used to go into hysterics if she left so much as left her _gloves_ at home.

"Stop starin', Mr T. People'd think ya'd neva seen a woman before." Nellie shielded her eyes against the last rays of sun falling across her face.

"It's _people_ that I worry about, Mrs Lovett. You attract too much attention." Sweeney slowly got up. He would never get time to brood. Not while Mrs Lovett stood there, demanding his attention.

She wasn't wearing his coat. It was tossed in the sand, next to the picnic blanket.

"Where is my jacket?" he demanded.

"Over there," Nellie pointed.

Sweeney narrowed his eyes into unfriendly slits. "I _told_ you to cover up."

"I wos, but me an' Toby wos playin' ball, an' it gets awful sweaty. Besides, Mr T, there ain't no one here but us."

It was true. The beach was empty now, save for one couple and their dog, making their way up the steep track to the village.

But that wasn't the _point, _Sweeney told himself. "That is beside the point, Mrs Lovett," he insisted.

Nellie stood there shivering, and crossed her arms. He wasn't moving either. She watched him nervously, silently, twisting her toes into the sand. At last he stopped looking at the sun, at the sea, and turned his gaze on her. Nellie had tried so hard to look _special_, but he only seemed disappointed.

"_Cover up_ from now on," Sweeney repeated, finally breaking eye contact. He saw that desperate look on her face. The way her eyes lingered over his lips, and on the crease in his brow. She was full of yearning – and Sweeney would not be the one to satisfy it.

He couldn'tlook at her.

"Come along Toby!" Nellie shouted, her voice nearly cracking.

She scampered back to the picnic blanket, and wiggled into her sopping wedding dress, throwing her arms through the sleeves like a butterfly returning to its cocoon.

Toby ran over good naturedly, helping her to fold up the picnic blanket and throw the left-over chips to the sea gulls. "We off now mum?"

"Yes Toby," Nellie said distractedly, shooting little heartfelt glances at Mr Todd. It was obvious now, she realised. _Why hadn't she seen it?_ She'd embarrassed him. He'd never really gone out in public often, Nellie thought. Not since his Lucy. His wife was all Sweeney really knew, or expected from women. But Mrs Lovett couldn't sit still, smile sweetly and knit a baby bonnet under an umbrella. She could never be _sweet_, or _innocent, _like Lucy. No _wonder_ Mr Todd was so disappointed.

How could Nellie make it up to him?

Sweeney kept his back to the baker and the boy. He watched the remaining clouds grow stained red with the blood of the sun. It pleased him, to know even the sun couldn't escape. _We all deserve to die, _he reminded himself fiercely.

"Love?" Mrs Lovett tilted her head, hoisting the picnic gear under her shoulder. Toby was close by her other shoulder, and they stood watching him anxiously.

Sweeney couldn't help thinking how alike they looked then. Almost….mother and son. "What?" he said rudely.

"We is off now. You comin'?"

"Of course," he snapped, taking long strides ahead of them, just to _prove_ he was still Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. He would not be made _soft_ by picnics and seashore and fish-and-chips and mad baker women.

*** * * Ten minutes later....**

Sweeney got to the top of the hill, and had to wait for them. It was dark now, and the village burned brightly against the black ocean.

Mrs Lovett puffed and panted with the huge picnic blanket under her arm. Sweeney hadn't offered to take it. "Do ya know where you're goin'?" she asked good-humouredly.

He clearly didn't. "Care to enlighten me?" Sweeny shot his hands deep into his coat pockets, staring into one of the houses. A family was dining.

"Well," Mrs Lovett began chirpily….a little _too_ chirpily for Sweeney's liking.

Toby shot his head up, and pointed up the road. Something was coming!

At first he thought it was a group of horses. But they were much too small for that. "Donkeys!" Toby whistled.

"I wos thinkin' we pitch ourselves up in Clovelly," Mrs Lovett continued all in a rush, her eyes especially dark under the shadows of the village lights.

"Clovelly?" Sweeney didn't like the sound of that. It sounded like clovers, which sounded like flowers, which sounded like fun.

And Sweeney knew how he felt about _fun._

"Oooh you'll love it Mr T! They says the flowas bloom all year round, an' its right by the sea an –" Mrs Lovett rushed up to the donkeys. There were three of them, and the old man leading them down the hill already seemed puffed.

Sweeney followed her."_What_ are they for?"

"For gettin' up them hills, silly," said Mrs Lovett, paying the man and slipping onto one of the Donkeys as if she'd done it every day of her life.

"That's what legs were invented for, Mrs Lovett," Sweeney said, smirking at the sight of Mrs Lovett clinging to the fat donkey, her legs stuck straight out in front of her.

"Legs!" the old man burst into laughter. "Ain't no legs can walk up them hills, mister."

Sweeney frowned. He didn't like being made fun of. He went up to Mrs Lovett's donkey. "They'd look a lot better dead," he whispered to her, glaring at the soft-eyed animal.

"Mr T!" Nellie pretended to look shocked. But she wasn't really. "Aw come on Mr T. Look at them faces," she pouted, bulging her eyes at him. They were almost as large as the donkey's. "Don't you think them things is sweet?"

Sweeney stared, and prodded her donkey in the gut. "No."

"Come on, it's the only way up, love." Mrs Lovett said, no-nonsense. "An' I was wantin' a bath an' a hot meal."

This was the Mrs Lovett he could handle. Dead-pan, and practical. Not _yearning._ Sweeney almost smirked. "Very well," he grumbled, and went to get sit on his donkey.

Toby was already seated, and the old man was already turning around up the hill.

"Wait love," Mrs Lovett said, and latched onto his arm. She leant over on the donkey, and kissed him quickly just on the edge of his jaw. Her lips were slightly chafed, but they were warm against the twilight air. For a brief moment after, she lingered by his cheek, and breathed softly against it. It was daring, and seductive. Lucy had kissed him countless times on the cheek, of course. But not in that sort of way. She had never _suggested_ anything in them. They were simply Lucy's kisses –

"Thank you," Mrs Lovett breathed, and went back to patting her donkey. But her eyes followed him all the way to his donkey.

Sweeney didn't know whether she was thanking him for agreeing to get on the donkey, or for the kiss. It didn't matter, in the end. He was angry with _himself._ What would Lucy think, he wondered, if she could read his mind, and discover he had for a brief, weak moment, compared her to another woman? An inferior one at that, he continued frowning.

"Hurry up," Sweeney said to the donkey, kicking it sharply in the guts. "If you don't move," he growled into its long ears, "I'll cut your stomach open."

The donkey took off up the hill, getting the fright of its life.

"Wait for me, Mr T!" a familiar voice called behind him. Mrs Lovett, of course.

_Mrs Lovett,_ Sweeney scowled, kicking the donkey in the guts again. Would he ever be rid of that infernal woman?

*** * ***

**YES! Mrs Lovett stole a kiss! *For the fangirls!* **

**How old is everyone? I turned 21 today!**

**Don't worry, I'll be updating like normal every weekend. Reviews?  
**


	17. Broken Kiss

**A/n: Thanks to the awesome reviewers **-** alchemistic, Roni-Baby, ncsigirl, F8WUZL8, and xxlindzzz and all the favs/alerts/silent readers. I know I say it all the time but I seriously wouldn't have the confidence to write this if it weren't for you!**

**~Broken Kiss~**

A kiss can be a marvellous – or a terrible thing. It can write symphonies, spin legends, work miracles, start and end wars.

The briefest, smallest of kisses can linger in a person's memory for the rest of their days. It can light the darkness of a moonless night, when all candles and fireplaces have smouldered to bitter coals and there is no one to comfort the restless sleeper.

Mrs Lovett was riding the wave of her daring kiss. It bore her all the way up to Clovelly village. It gave her the courage to knock on the stranger's door and negotiate renting a house in the sleepy village.

Finally, after an hour haggling prices, the stranger gave it to her for a third of the original asking price."Couldn't have a better house to rent in the whole of Clovelly," said the stranger proudly.

Mrs Lovett wasn't listening. She was staring at their new home: a little white-washed cottage with a blue hyacinth gate and blue shutters over the windows.

It even had a little flower-bed full of primroses and daises and foxgloves and geraniums and jonquils and goodness knows how many other flowers.

It was difficult to make them out in the darkness – but Mrs Lovett couldn't _wait_ to get up to her knees and elbows in gardening. Mr T would help too, of course.

"Ooh look at the garden," Mrs Lovett gushed, squeezing Mr Todd's hand. He looked at her with a brief shoot of horror, as if someone were suggesting a stroll in a thunderstorm.

It was the kiss that made the bubbles rise up in Mrs Lovett's stomach and throat. She felt as if she were a child celebrating her first birthday.

It made her snatch up Mr Todd's hand and drag him into the house. Toby followed after them, a small forgotten shadow.

_If he let me kiss him once,_ Nellie schemed,_ who knows wot we might accomplish after we've settled down here and forgot this awful business of judges and killings?_

"Mum, where do ya want them things?" Toby had most of Mrs Lovett's luggage hanging off his arms.

"Just throw it where you please, love," Mrs Lovett said joyously, almost skipping into the little dining room.

There was a cosy little parlour, a country-looking kitchen, a bathroom tucked away behind it, and upstairs a little attic with two patch-work quilt beds facing a little arched window that overlooked the coast.

They had done it! Well, _she_ had done it, Mrs Lovett thought, stringing the house key around her neck. It was her dream home! For the first time in her life, Mrs Lovett had something _decent. She_ and Mr Todd, not_ Lucy _and Benjamin Barker, were living as husband and wife in a perfect little sea-side cottage.

"Now, ain't this cosy Mr T?"

They were standing in the poky living room together.

Mrs Lovett was by the fireplace, and Sweeney Todd stood as far away as possible by the window. Two mauve old chairs with white flower prints sat in the middle of the room. Nellie thought the chairs reminded her of an old married couple, and envisioned many cosy afternoons having tea and lemon cheesecakes with Mr T by the fire.

Just her and Mr T.

"It's a room, Mrs Lovett," Sweeney grumbled. What difference did it make where they lived? It didn't change a thing. He would still dream of his wife and child everyday, as he had done for fifteen long years in the colony.

"Love," Mrs Lovet sighed, almost scolding him. "Just _think_ wot we can do with it. All it needs is a lick of paint, a bit o' new wallpaper, a few charming chintz pieces and some embroidered cushions and Toby Jugs and a smidge of scented musk and a polish for the floorboards and a good thick carpet rug an' we'll be right as rain – "

Sweeney knew this would happen.

She was suffocating him. Five minutes into the dream home, and she was strangling him with china plates and cosy cushions. He clutched onto the dull frame of the window, trying to recall the good old days. The days when Mrs Lovett would leave him alone for hours at a time – hours to brood, and shave and _kill._ Sweeney was beginning to wonder if their escape from London had done any of them any good. At least there, up in his barber shop, Sweeney had known little scraps of peace.

He groaned. Not anymore, it seemed.

A kiss can be a marvellous – or a terrible thing.

It can give the foolish hope, and lead them up the hill where more fools gather and wait together for their lovers to come and rescue them. When really, they had imagined the whole thing. There was no lover waiting for them. There was only the kiss – the memory of a stolen kiss.

The kiss had given Mrs Lovett hope.

She went racing up that hill with the rest of the fools, waiting for Sweeney Todd or Benjamin Barker to carry her off into the sunset. She didn't care what he called himself. He could keep his razors. He could keep his white streak. He could keep his demon smile. As long as she could have his kiss.

"Wot's wrong, Mr T?" Mrs Lovett studied his slumped shoulders, and went to wrap herself around them.

It was odd, how well they fitted together. There was the spot in between his shoulder blades that fitted comfortably against Mrs Lovett's head. She began to massage the backs of his arms. It pained her – to think she'd never seen the colour and texture of his skin beneath his sleeves. "Don't fret, love. You'll see. All will be as right as rain. Wot me grandmotha always said, anyways."

Sweeney didn't move.

"You're not my wife, Mrs Lovett. You're _not_ Lucy." He didn't have to infuse any special coldness into those words. They were the truth. Only a wife had the privilege of caressing a husband. Only a wife had the power to reassure him, when all candles and fireplaces in the house have smouldered to bitter coals.

Mrs Lovett was, at times, Sweeney admitted, enticing. At times, there was a strange sort of _witchcraft_ in her. On the hill, with the donkeys. Her lips grazing his jaw. He hadn't felt that same stirring since he and his friends had worked their magic on the throats of London.

But she was _still_ a fraud. A witch. A false imitator of his Lucy.

"Did you hear me, Mrs Lovett?" he repeated.

He felt her body tremble a little against him, as if she finally realised how inappropriate her actions were.

"I can try –" he heard her whisper into his back, as if she were nearly kissing it.

The words woke Sweeney up. He wasn't brooding and dreaming anymore. Mrs Lovett needed to learn her place.

"I don't want you to try," he repeated, turning and shrugging her off. "You're my _partner_, Mrs Lovett. Eminently practical. _Remember_ that."

He went up the stairs to the attic.

Of course, Sweeney realised, tearing the sheets off and falling into the bed, she was only practical _some of the time. _

The other half, she was a drowning, spiralling mess, trying to drag him down with her into a bathtub without a bottom. If Mrs Lovett had her way, he'd be sitting on her bed every night, crying into each others' arms. The problem was, Sweeney didn't cry. Mrs Lovett never seemed to grasp that. She was always trying to draw him out of himself, as if he were a crab stubbornly hiding in his shell.

He liked his shell. The day Mrs Lovett had him scrubbing his clothes over a washtub in bright frilly apron, or planting smiling yellow daises in the garden, was the day he murdered her.

And himself.

*** * ***

"Mum it's nearly two past the hour." Toby had come into the living room.

The fireplace was lit, and Mrs Lovett lay curled up in one of the mauve chairs, her head crumpled in the crook of her arm.

If Toby hadn't known better, he would have said she was dead.

On the floor, he spied a half-empty bottle of gin. His mum was at it again.

"Mum?"

When no answer came, Toby went over to the chair, and wrapped one of the spare blankets around her shoulders. He didn't have to guess what was wrong.

*** * ***

"Good morning!"

Someone rapped on the little door, and when no answer came, they tried the window.

Eventually, Toby scrambled to his feet, and answered the door. "Wot?"

"I'm Sedgewick," said the man, a fair, red-head with a fine, bushy moustache and darting pale eyes.

"Wot you want?" Toby was used to being suspicious.

The man smiled – he was a little shocked, but he still smiled. "I heard you're the new neighbours. My wife and I live just down the road. We were hoping – "

"Hold up," Toby said, leaving the door ajar with a spare suitcase. "I'll get me mum."

In the living room, Mrs Lovett was just coming to. The wallpaper looked much brighter, her arm had gone to sleep, and she was pretty certain her hair and clothes stunk of gin.

"Wot is it Toby?" she half-yelled, trying to hear herself over the roar of chirping birds outside the window. At least, she thought they were roaring. And where was all the blasted sunshine comin' from?"

"There's a man here to see you," Toby sang out, helping her to her feet.

"Tell 'im I'm done wif men," Mrs Lovett said groggily, massaging her wild bird nest hair. She still hadn't had that hot bath yet. She padded over to the narrow entrance, not bothering to put on her boots.

"Good morning, ma'am," said Mr Sedgewick, tipping his hat at her.

"Call me Mrs – _Stowe," _Mrs Lovett said, almost forgetting to use her fake name. Wouldn't Mr Todd have killed her for that!

"Enchanted," Mr Sedgewick smiled, staring at her odd appearance.

She was very pale, her eyes were large and almost swollen, her hair looked as if it had battled with the brambles down the road, and her dress was very modern, showy….and _inappropriate._ She reminded him immediately of a…..but Mr Sedgewick stopped. It seemed cruel to compare her to a…a common strumpet. Perhaps she was foreign, and didn't know the customs?

"Are you….from over the channel, ma'am?" Sedgewick asked politely.

Mrs Lovett laughed. "'Course not dear. Can't ya tell me accent? I'm a born and bred Lond'ner, I am."

"Of course." Sedgewick was a little worried. He didn't know if his wife was going to like it but he couldn't back out now. "I was hoping, Mrs Stowe, that you would join my wife and I for dinner this evening? A sort of welcoming you to Clovelly. We're a very tight-nit community, as you can imagine. Your husband is invited too, of course."

Mrs Lovett smiled composedly. But she was worried. "How do you know about me 'usband?"

Sedgewick beamed. "News travels fast here, Mrs Lovett."

Mrs Lovett beamed back. She hoped he couldn't smell the gin on her.

"I know wot you mean. Wos the same thing in London, it wos. Everyone knows ya business," she chatted, "an' I s'pose it's nice we all look afta each otha, wot is wot you is doin', I should think. Tell your wife we'd be delighted, me 'usband an' I. I'll tell him straight – "

"There's no need for that, _Mrs Stowe_," said a low voice behind her.

Sedgewick stared at the man looming over Mrs Lovett. Even in the full glare of sunlight, the shadows lingered under his eyes. He was an unpleasant looking man, and Sedgewick had the sudden feeling of being placed outside on a cold wintry night with the frost clustering round his legs and arms. This man wasn't used to the sunlight, Sedgewick immediately decided.

"I'm sorry sir," said the man coldly, ushering Mrs Lovett inside. "Today is not the best time."

"Perhaps some other time," Sedgewick offered, almost sticking his hand out for the shadowy man to shake.

But the door was already shut.

* * *

"_What, _Mrs Lovett," he snarled, dragging her up into the tiny attic, "do you think you're playing at?"

Sweeney Todd was the wildest he'd ever been.

Neither of them, it seemed, had slept very well.

"Nothin'," Mrs Lovett whispered stubbornly, jerking her arm away from him.

"Talking to strangers is _nothing?_ Telling them all our personal business is _nothing?_"

Mrs Lovett stayed silent.

Sweeney took it that she was remorseful. "These are the rules. You don't go out, unless it's necessary. Nor will I. We keep conversations with strangers to a _minimum. _And we are _not_ to make friends. It's too risky."

"I'm sorry, Mr Todd," Mrs Lovett said sarcastically, plopping down on one of the spare beds. She tried not to let those menacing eyes dominate her. "I didn't know we wos _husband and wife."_

"We're not," Sweeney growled, completely missing the sarcasm. He stormed out of the attic.

For the first time that day, Mrs Lovett half-wished she'd never kissed him. _Look_ at what a mess had come of it.

*** * ***

**I KNOW. Sweeney Todd's done it again. But he really can't help it - the guy needs serious psychotherapy - and let's face it, Mrs Lovett isn't much help! It must be hard living with someone who wants to jump your bones 24/7! For all those anxiously biting their nails - fear not. This _will_ be eventual Sweenett.  
**


	18. Casting Stones

**A/N: Better late than never people! Alchemistic - a_ longer_ chap, as promised. I am welcome to other requests - _except_ immediate Sweenett. I want more than anything for Mr Todd to stop acting like a first-rate neanderthal - but then we wouldn't love him so much, would we? =DD**

**~Casting Stones~**

"Mrs Lovett."

"Yes, pet?"

The bathroom was an odd place to make peace, Nellie Lovett thought. He could have come into the kitchen, when she was cooking meringues. Or in the parlour, when she and Toby were playing pick up sticks. Or even in the hallway, when she was fixing her hair at the mirror.

But the _bathroom_. It was cold, for one. Most of the water slopped over the bathtub. And the floor gets soaked something fierce, as if the sea-tide had swept into the house and drowned the poor slate tiles and the mournful stone chinese dragon guarding the bathroom entrance. I suppose it suits Mr T, Nellie thought. Him being an odd-bod, an' all.

"Where – " Mr T was standing there, looking his usual baffled self.

Nellie knew he'd meant to ask "where are you going?" But he hadn't quite forced the words out. Was it the way she was dressed? Mrs Lovett felt it was important to make an impression on the world. Otherwise if she didn't splash out in a flaming ball of colour and frills and lace and fire who in this cold bitter world would ever remember a woman by the name of Eleanor Lovett had ever existed? Yes, that was probably why she did it.

'What is _that?"_

"Wot you think it looks like Mr T? Me nightie?"

He was staring at the blood-red gown she was wearing. Heaven, or _Hell _knows where she had gotten it. It came in tight and cinched at the waste, and billowed out like torn flaps of skin at the bottom. It rested nicely, provocatively, around the curve of her breasts. She didn't have the money to afford jewels or a brooch – but then this was a village, not London. Her corkscrew hair was pulled half-up, half-down. Not really appropriate for a lady, but then, Sweeney supposed –Mrs Lovett had never really aspired to be a lady.

"I hardly think, Mrs Lovett, that's appropriate – "

Nellie rounded on him. "An' I s'pose you think you're me father? Or me 'usband, comin' in an' bossin' me around. You might 'ave tried it with _her. _But you ain't doin' it to me." She was panting by the end of her speech.

Sweeney Todd was half-way down the hall.

He'd caught the glimmer of the wedding ring on her finger, and it had been too much. She was barging into his life, filling the halls and the rooms and the kitchen and every waking moment with her shrill, bellowing voice. Where was Lucy in all this, he wondered? What was he doing to _her? _For when it came down to the facts, Sweeney Todd wasn't just married to another women on a useless piece of paper. He was living with her, and fighting with her. Just like any other married couple.

It wouldn't do.

"Wait, love." She didn't want him to go so soon. Not so soon. "Wot was you wantin' ta ask me?"

"I only hope that you don't intend to go behind my back."

"An' how would I be doin' that?"

"Don't play coy. I warned you to stay away. We're not here to socialise."

She had had it.

Mrs Lovett wasn't like Mr Todd. She wasn't touched by that boiling kettle of anger every five minutes of the day. But in her own way, she could be murderous.

"Wot you want from me Mr T?" There was nothing vicious in her words. But her despair drowned them both. Nellie Lovett could kill two grown adults with despair alone. "I can't get next to ya love, an' if I can't 'ave that – if I can't 'ave – well it just ain't enough for me to brood me life away in this poky little hole. I need air – I need_ people_ – or else I might as well be dead."

"We both might as well be dead," Sweeney muttered.

"But we ain't," said Mrs Lovett sternly. "An' we ain't gonna be neither, since you made me your promise. You promised _her," _she added, careful not to mention the words "Lucy" and "promise" in the same sentence. Mrs Lovett wondered at times what daft creature had thought to invent the name "Lucy" in the first place. It sounded like a scrappy piece of lace thrown into the bottom of a basket, the very last piece that no one had wanted. Too fragile. Not at all human.

"Yes. I did promise." Sweeney sunk uneasily into the mauve chair in the living room.

It didn't take much for Mrs Lovett to intervene. She went to the fire-place, sashaying in her brilliant dress, and filled two little glasses of gin. "Drink this."

He lifted the glass, and nodded, unable to mouth the word "thanks".

She came and sat beside him on the floor, resting one taffeta sleeve on the arm of the chair. "Ah, love." She gulped the gin down easily, and craned her neck toward the ceiling.

"I'm not cruel, Mrs Lovett."

"I know, love," she said merrily. He had seen her in the dress. He knew she was going out. And he hadn't tried to stop her!

"The world hates us. Why should we pretend?"

"I know, love." Mrs Lovett watched the grandfather clock on the wall strike six o' clock. She had to be going soon. "Wonder why these people left all them expensive things here. You know Mr t," she rambled, scanning her eyes round the room of cosy splendour. "Take that big grandfather clock, for instance, and then that menacin' chinese dragon in the bathroom –"

"Where is the boy?" Sweeney said suddenly, sitting stiff in the chair. He despised the idea of that child spying on them, as much as he despised the child.

Nellie smiled. Did she detect a smidgen of fatherly care? "Love it's nice of you to be finally makin' peace with Toby. But I wouldn't bother him just now. Last time we talked 'e was in the kitchen with me meringues and a fresh tot o' gin. If we don't watch out the poor thing'll be as fat as me poor Albert before long – "

"I wouldn't mention it Mrs Lovett," he warned.

_"Wot?"_ Mrs Lovett would have given all her fingers and toes for him to look lovingly on her and speak her name with the same adoration he spoke of Lucy – but at this very moment in time she couldn't stand him. "Just coz you hate everythin' wot's past don't mean I can't mention me 'usband!"

"Your _dead _husband," Sweeney reminded her.

"Dead or not it ain't none o' your business how I choose to rememba 'im."

The barber didn't make another peep for the next five minutes. Any attempt to break such silence would be like swimming down into the abyss.

"If you'll excuse me, dear," said Mrs Lovett, rising to her feet. She was at the door with a blood red shawl around her neck and about to turn the knob when Sweeney caught on.

"You're not going. We agreed." He barred the door.

"_No,_ Mr Todd, we agreed nothin' o' the sort. I need _people."_

"And what will you tell them, Mrs Lovett?" He was smirking at her now. "Will you tell them how you cut up husbands and poor old men and ground them lovingly into your pies? Will you tell them _that_?"

He had a point.

Nellie often woke up after a fit of bad dreams. It was the same dream, really, told night after night different ways. She was in the bakehouse, slicing strips of skin away from body after body. The strips were tossed into the furnace, along with the rest of the muscle and skeleton. It was the fatty bits of flesh she wanted. Everything was going to plan when the bodies began to speak to her. "A little lower to the left, Eleanor," one of them would say. "You're not slicing deep enough, Mrs Lovett," said the body of an old sailor. He would laugh at her every night, just laugh at her futile attempts to cut away his flesh. In the end, she ended up slicing off his face so she wouldn't have to be reminded of what a monster she was.

And she was a monster.

"I'm worse than him," Nellie whispered aloud, recalling the dream. Worse than Mr T. At least he gives them quick deaths. I'm the sick one who had to savour every little muscle and vessel and not give a damn that so-and-so had a wife and six grandkids –

"I'm not the one pretending," Sweeney said. He watched her still grip the door knob, as if she were a statue and not a woman about to implode. She was staring at the cracks in the paint. But he knew she was listening.

"There's no use pretending," he continued. He took her chin, and jerked her face so that is was level with his. The woman must see sense. "You are a demon, Mrs Lovett."

He let the words sink in, take form and shape in that desecrated mind of hers. She might try to play the happy country wife, she might smile and bake sherbets and gingerbreads and garden noon till night, and rag her hair in curls and bring cups of tea to him by the fire – but Mrs Lovett was nothing more than a demon, underneath.

She was staring at him now, just as he had intended. Sweeney didn't like to be ignored. Those eyes were no longer broken or bleeding or weeping or whatever sad things Mrs Lovett's eyes tended to do. She was now smiling wickedly with those oddly shaped lips. Bird lips, Sweeney considered. It was as if she were laughing at him – though her eyes remained deadly calm. They swam and swirled before him like two dark pools in the low lamplight. Did the whole thing amuse her?

He gripped her arm – and could see none of that familiar white flesh. It was covered instead with that foul blood-red taffeta. It reminded him too much of the Judge's blood, when he had spilled it all those eons ago. "I cut the bleeders. You bake the pies," he hissed.

"That's all behind us now, Mr T," Mrs Lovett said, her smirk fading away like the drizzling ends of a rain storm.

"For you. Not for me," he said, yanking the door open.

Outside, the afternoon had fled, and the last dregs of pathetic sunlight were pumping over the hills. It was cold.

"That is _their _world, Mrs Lovett. Our world stays _here," _he said, thumping the floor with his foot.

None of this seemed to shock Mrs Lovett. In fact, she seemed to _enjoy _his tempers. It was the stony silence that maddened her. He had, after all, called it "their world." His and Nellie's. Perhaps there was hope for them yet? Any invitation by Mr T's – no matter how roughly put, was good enough for Mrs Lovett. "Do you really mean it love?"

"Mean what?" Sweeney stared at the silly goose of a woman. "What are you talking – "

"Our world. You said –"

Oh drats. Nellie was done for now. Why couldn't she have left well enough alone? She couldn't help it – anything Mr T said she had to challenge. It wasn't like her, Nellie felt. To sneak about him and talk to the neighbours behind his back. Well, maybe it _was _like her. She had, after all, kept Lucy a secret all this time. And she would take it to her grave. But now, Nellie was certainly in hot water. She'd gone over there and asked Mr Sedgewick to come and pick them up at six. They _would_ dine that day, Nellie said. Must forgive me husband, she'd said. He's not all there in the head. 'Bout of malaria over in India.

Oh yes. She was done for.

Coming up the garden path in full dinner regale, was Mr and Mrs Sedgewick.

"_Mrs Lovett – "_ Sweeney's fury erupted deep inside his throat.

"Play nice, Mr T," Mrs Lovett hissed in his ear. "We gotta keep a respectable face up for the neighbahs –"

"You _planned _this. A trap."

"No I neva –"

"You will _pay _for this, Mrs Lovett," he said through his teeth. He turned and smiled unpleasantly at her.

Mr and Mrs Sedgewick were less than ten steps from the door.

Sweeney squeezed her hand and wrapped a hand around her waist. But all the while he was seething. "Mark my words, my dear," he whispered nastily. "Just wait."

But Mrs Lovett couldn't wait. She suddenly wanted them gone. Who needed people, she realised suddenly, when this was the dream she'd been coveting her entire life? Married to Benjamin Barker, with a child in cosy little cottage by the sea. He was mad now, she told herself. But he soon wouldn't be. Nellie could charm him round, she was sure. He didn't have any purpose anymore. No more throats to cut. He would have to start paying her mind. Wouldn't he? _Wouldn't he?_

"Mrs Stowe!" It was Sedgewick, stepping nervously in front of his wife. He kissed Mrs Lovett's un-gloved hand (she didn't have any matching red gloves) and then shook Sweeney's hand with as much gusto as a man meeting the Devil for the first time. Which was pretty much spot on.

"Mr Sedgewick," Mrs Lovett curtsied. "You've met me charmin' husband."

Sedgewick swallowed. "Charming" was perhaps the wrong adjective. He felt his wife pinching under his arm. She was already furious with him. But they couldn't very well _renounce _their own invitation. It was his own fault for speaking with strangers, his wife said.

"Ooh you wife is a pretty doll ain't she," Mrs Lovett cooed, smiling pleasantly at Mrs Sedgewick.

"Ah yes," Mr Sedgewick said awkwardly, brushing his red moustache. "This is my wife, Mrs Sedgewick. Mrs Sedgewick, this is Mr and Mrs Stowe."

Mrs Sedgewick might have looked like a pretty little doll. She had tight blonde curls wrapped up in an elaborate Grecian bun, and wore a conservative forest green suit-dress. It was buttoned up all the way to her neck, and her hands were suitably gloved. But Mrs Sedgewick was not sweet. She was a head taller than Mrs Lovett, and moved her graceful arms and neck about like a swan. "Charmed, aren't we husband?"

But it was obvious they weren't.

Mr Sedgewick was jigging his foot uncomfortably on the garden stones, Sweeney was glowering at his unwelcome guests, and Mrs Sedgewick was pursing her lips and looking distastefully at Mrs Lovett's clothes. _Dressed like a common whore, _Mrs Sedgewick thought, hoping none of the other neighbours would notice them socialising together.

"You ain't from round here?" Nellie was still beaming. But she wasn't so daft as to not notice the woman's cool demeanour. Actin' like a regular floatin' ice-berg, she is. What Mrs Lovett would have given that moment to have one of her daily ding-dong cat-fights with Mrs Mooney. They had hated each other's guts, but at least there had been no pretence.

"No. We are not," said Mrs Sedgewick shortly, as if Mrs Lovett had asked to see her private jewel collection.

"We're from _Hertfordshire_," Mr Sedgewick explained.

Sweeney Todd and Mrs Lovett had visions of nobles and aristocrats flying off to expensive balls and luncheons – all they knew was that Hertfordshire was a haven for the rich. Sweeney in particular felt the familiar kettle whistle rise in his ears. These people had probably dined with the Judge, at some point. At their rich, lavish parties. Gorging on the poor. He glared at the husband. He went to glare at the woman –

But he didn't. He couldn't. She had lovely yellow hair. Lucy's hair, he realised. She had the same long proportions and languid neck. The dress was all the wrong colour for her light, almost pink skin. But the little pearl earrings were perfect – just the sort Lucy might have worn. She gave brief little smile in his direction.

All this uncomfortable staring didn't go unnoticed by Mrs Lovett, or Mr Sedgewick.

"It's a bit chilly," Mr Sedgewick said, taking his wife's arm. "Shall we proceed?"

Mrs Lovett nodded. She didn't think it was healthy for someone in Mr Todd's condition to be staring at _any _blonde woman for an inordinate amount of time. "Come on, love," and she shook his arm a little.

Mrs Sedgewick only smiled mysteriously. She didn't mind it so much when everyone was looking at her.

"Hold up. Lemme just check. Love!" Mrs Lovett bellowed out with lungs to match a fish-wife. She opened the door ajar, and saw the boy's familiar little rag-doll figure slumped over the kitchen bench. "Love!" she called again.

Toby sat up a little, and faintly nodded.

"Don't burn the 'ouse down while we're gone! An' keep your grubby mitts off the rest o' the gin!"

Mrs Sedgewick smiled a little, as if she were watching a zoo of chimpanzees interact. "If you will follow us, Mr and Mrs Stowe. Our house is but a stone's throw from here."

Sweeney Todd watched the couple walk ahead a little, and dragged Mrs Lovett aside. "Say you're sick. You've taken sick, and you can't go on."

Mrs Lovett slapped his hand away. "It's too late for that love."

"I don't trust them," Sweeney growled.

"Wot do you know?" she hissed. "You don't trust a soul." Mrs Lovett shook her head and walked on, lifting her bloody skirts high above the stones and grass.

He hadn't told Mrs Lovett that he didn't want to go _near _that woman. That snake-charmer woman with the wheat-coloured hair. And she had Lucy's face! She might have been her twin.

Sweeney paused by the garden gate, and turned back to the white-washed walls and the narrow door. He could almost imagine Lucy opening the door just then, and calling him inside –

But Mrs Lovett had his arm again.

"To be 'onest with ya Mr T, I'm sick o' your mopin'. Before long, you'll end up a sad old man. A sad old man wif nothin' but memories and ashes."

Sweeney didn't say a word, and they went off to dinner. He was privately agreeing with her.

* * *

"Hello?" Constable Lithgow knocked on the little narrow door of the cottage for a good twenty minutes.

It had taken him a miserable ride up a hill on a stench-ridden donkey to get this far - and damn if he was turning back.

No answer came. The house was as still as the bottom of the sea.

He had tried the neighbours just next door, but they had never heard of a Mr Sweeney Todd or a Mrs Lovett.

It was cold, and the Constable had a terrible flu. But he was not deterred.

"Hello?!"

Nothing.

He had spent the better part of the afternoon knocking down doors and asking.

But not a soul had heard of the Demon Barber of Fleet Street, nor his baker accomplice, the infamous Mrs Lovett.

"I have a police warrant," Constable Lithgow continued.

Still no answer.

He would come back tomorrow, Lithgow decided.

Once the detective caught a scent, he could not be shaken off.

He would find them.

He would hang them from the tower of London for what they had done.

* * *

**This is really random but what colour hair do you all have? **

**I keep changing mine - it's reddish brown at the moment =)**

**Hmmm.....it seems Mr T has an eye for the blondes. What should Mrs Lovett do? He he I have visions of Nellie putting bleach in Mrs Sedgewick's tea.**


	19. The ThreeRing Circus

**A/N: Hey all. I went all out with this chapter since Mrs Lovett's having a bit of a jealous freak-out inferiority complex thing going on at the moment. I would too, if Lucy NO. 2 was trying to sink her claws into Sweeney!**

**~The Three-Ringed Circus~**

_A Lady should always have an easy, becoming and graceful movement while engaged in a quadrille or promenade. It is more pleasing to the gentleman. _

--from "Etiquette for the Ball Room"

*** * ***

Mrs Lovett had never dreamed of becoming a lady.

It was never the ladies she admired.

The ladies going to and from church and parties in their stiff backs and parasols and dainty white shoes and straight collars. Oh, they were pretty-looking, she knew, like paper dolls you mustn't tear. But not any fun. No, it was the whores she'd admired. Of course, she hadn't known that at eight years old. She thought the women on the streets with their full red lips and vibrant hair and garish dresses were beautiful witches who had the power to make men fall to their knees and send the whole world spinning at their feet. Which, in a way, was true. Her aunt and uncle had thought she was a bizarre child. But Nellie had insisted that when she grew up, she was going to be just like one of those beautiful witch women.

Me days would never be boring if I wos like them, she'd imagined.

"Don't dawdle now, Mrs Stowe. The dinner will go cold."

It was Mr Sedgewick, holding the door open for her. They were all standing on the garden edge: Mrs Lovett, Mr T, and that _awful _Mrs Sedgewick. Nellie wanted to stick pins into the woman's eyes, and hated herself for it. But the sight of yellow hair was enough to make her sick.

"You _are_ alright, Mrs Stowe?"

They were all looking at her now.

Never had Nellie felt so conscious of her dress. Of course, she'd had one or two rude run-ins among customers back home, just the odd 'floozy' or 'tramp' comment. She'd actually welcomed the comments, since many had believed she and Mr T were carrying on some sort of affair, a rumour that she didn't mind encouraging. And as foul as Mrs Mooney and the rest of them lot could be, Mrs Lovett had been among her people, back where people called a pot a pot and a spade a spade. Rude and vulgar she could handle. But she _hated_ mincing words with truffed-up peacock women such as Mrs Sedgewick.

"Fine, just fine love." Did they think she was ill or something?

Sweeney coughed, and looked pointedly at Nellie. Suddenly she realised she was meant to take Mr Sedgewick's hand and follow him in. Must be one of them dumb society laws where the host has to lead the woman-guest in first, Mrs Lovett guessed. How was a baker-woman like her meant to know the rules of the rich?

"Thank you, sir," she said to Mr Sedgewick, and took his hand.

Behind them, Mrs Sedgewick took Sweeney's arm, and brought up the rear. A butler was now stationed at the door, and waited patiently for them to trawl through. Down the hall, Nellie could hear laughter and glasses chinking, and saw the heads of people at dinner. She had not been expecting this. It was all so formal for just a little country village.

Nellie frowned, and when she turned slightly she saw that Mr Todd was frowning too. A little girl was standing directly before them, twirling about in a blue muslin dress and humming. Her hair was the colour of corn and she had a conscious air of her own importance. Inherited from her mother, no doubt, Nellie thought.

"Mother, why are you feeding paupers? I thought you didn't believe it charity."

If Nellie wasn't used to such insults, her jaw might have dropped. Wot a rude little mite wos this! But the child went on smiling away as if it were her right to judge whatever person entered her domain.

"Mr and Mrs Stowe, our child, Alice," said Mrs Sedgewick, giving a darting little smile. "You must excuse her she has such an imagination," she added. In no way did it sound like a reprimand.

To Nellie, it actually sounded as if she were _encouraging_ the girl. She shot a glance back at Mr Todd, but his face remained impassive. It was as if his grand plan was to sleep-walk through the entire dinner. Nellie frowned, and fiddled with the edges of her curls.

"But you told me never to _lie,"_ the child protested. "And they _do_ look like paupers, don't you think?"

Mrs Sedgewick was at this point pretending to fix the collar of her dress, and wasn't about to contradict her child. It was Mr Sedgewick who stepped in, twisting his moustache and taking his daughter firmly by the hand. "Alice, mind your manners! It is of no importance to you."

Mrs Lovett bristled. Paupers! That child wouldn't smirk so, if it knew wot she an' Mr T were really capable of!

"Mr T," Mrs Lovett mouthed, but he ignored her. By some strange miracle of events, Mr Todd didn't seem bothered. Mrs Lovett was growing more suspicious by the minute. She knew how much Sweeney loathed children.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr and Mrs Stowe," said Mr Sedgwick, bowing formally. "I must put this naughty child to bed." And he carried Alice upstairs dutifully, leaving them alone with Mrs Sedgewick.

Well, Mrs Lovett thought, 'e deserves credit where credit's due. He seems the dutiful father-sort.

"Mr Stowe," began Mrs Sedgewick, smiling oddly at Sweeney Todd. "May I enquire as to what is your profession?"

"I'm a…butcher," Sweeney said brusquely, and Mrs Lovett met his eyes sharply. He was smirking, but his eyes remained dead.

Did he think that was a funny joke? Mrs Lovett thought, wondering where his sudden humour was coming from. Mr T's humour came and went like a sun-shower.

Brusqueness and cold dead eyes didn't seem to put Mrs Sedgewick off. "How quaint," she replied, her eyes darting to his clasped hands. "It will be good for Clovelly to have another butcher. I do love venison. I am sure you cut a fine venison, Mr Stowe?" Her eyes were sparkling now, and neither of them were looking at Mrs Lovett.

"Of course," was Sweeney's customary answer.

The snake! Nellie wanted to scratch the woman to pieces and push her face in the muddy garden outside. This was no Lucy. They both had yellow hair. But this woman could never be a poor little thing.

"Do you like flowers, Mr Stowe?" Mrs Sedgewick's mouth burst into a high little laugh.

* * *

When they were finally seated at the preposterously long dinner table, Mrs Lovett wished they hadn't come.

There was so many names, and people, and rules, and titles she had to remember. Apparently, Mr and Mrs Sedgewick were related to some distant Baron and Baroness, and had invited them all over for a summer jaunt.

"Clovelly is such a treasure in the summer time," Mrs Sedgewick laughed.

Nellie rolled her eyes. She was seated between Mr T and an older gentleman who kept trying to correct her cockney accent. Seated next to Sweeney, was, surprise surprise, Mrs Sedgewick, and a little further down, her husband.

It was staggering, the amount of _things_ loaded onto that groaning dinner table.

Nellie ran her eyes up and down the filled seats, and could see no point in such waste. So many articles, and for what purpose, Nellie had no idea. She'd only caught glimpses and snatches of the wealthy dinner parties going past the open windows of houses as a girl. She couldn't say she ever envied them – imagine the washing up afterward! But now it was all set before her, and she would have to go along with it and oooh and aaah and make a great deal of how much she liked and admired it all.

It reminded Mrs Lovett of an army regiment. Every china piece, every silver, every stemware, seemed to have its appointed place. It was all properly aligned; all twenty-four pieces of silver loaded either side of each person's plate. Nellie counted eight forks, and eight knives: fish forks, dinner forks, ice-cream forks, butter forks, cheese forks, game forks, roast forks, fruit-forks.

It was obscene. Of course, Nellie had no idea _which_ fork or knife or spoon was which. She was only matching up the implements with the menu, which was also obscenely long. How could they be expected to eat so much food?

On top of that, there were sherry glasses, champagne glasses, red-wine glasses, bread plates, not to mention cake stands, casters, coffee sets, creamers, celery vases, berry bowls, berry spoons, butter dishes, butter-pats, crumb trays and scrapers, decanters, epergnes, globlets, honey dishes, ice-water sets, knife rests, napkin rings, nutcrackers, nutpicks, platters, salt cellars, spoon-holders and syrupers. There were other little glass and silver dishes spread across the table, filled with nuts and celery, olives and radishes.

Probably only the Judge could have competed with such wasteful luxury. When he was _alive, _Nellie thought smugly.

Beside the compotier of assorted cakes in the middle of the table, was the main attraction. It was the floral centre-piece, and the amount of flowers stuffed and dripping over the sides of the heavy glass bowl made Nellie sick thinking on how expensive it was.

Nellie adored flowers, and she would go on adoring them till she died. It was one of her few passions. She even had a special book on _The Language of Flowers_. It had been Albert's gift to her on her 26th birthday (a month after her second miscarriage). It had helped her through the hard hours – those little twilight moments at the end of the day when Albert was snoring in his chair and no customers came to busy her and Nellie was left wondering about Benjamin and if he was still alive sweltering it out somewhere in that godforsaken colony. She'd sift through the beautiful, coloured pages, and imagine that Ben would return from Australia one day with a special bunch of flowers in his hand and knock right on her door and demand they elope straight away.

"I see, Mrs Stowe, that you admire my flower arrangement."

It wasn't a question. Mrs Sedgewick had apparently stopped talking to Sweeney for the moment, and was staring, hands clasped neatly, straight at Nellie. As she was the hostess, many of the guests broke their conversations, and turned to listen.

"They is quite charmin'," Nellie began, casting her gaze at Mrs Sedgewick. She wouldn't let this woman over-power her, evil snake-woman that she wos.

Nellie felt a little stab of nerves, for it was no surprise that Mrs Sedgewick should be well-versed in flower-etiquette too.

There were Lady's slipper orchids: that meant "win me, capricious beauty." There were yellow irises, for passion, and purple columbines that meant "resolved to win." There was a sprinkling of Diosma, signifying "Your simple elegance charms me," and pink spider flowers: that meant "elope with me." The witch hazel didn't escape Nellie's notice either. _A spell, _she noted. Did that mean Mrs Sedgewick was attempting to cast a spell? Over who?

She turned to Mr Todd. He was busy wrestling with his salad. Good. Nellie turned her attention back to the flower bowl. The worst had yet to come. At the very top were eleven red roses, and one yellow rose, stuck far above the other flowers in the bowl. Perhaps she was overreacting. But Nellie Lovett felt certain after many years of living with Albert and receiving the odd flower from time to time, that these were _not_ the sort of flowers you would arrange for your husband, especially if you were inviting guests. If Mrs Sedgewick wanted to be embarrassed, so be it!

"Eleven red, an' one yellow signifies passion," Nellie deliberately said aloud.

But the hostess wasn't at all fazed. "I took special care," said Mrs Sedgewick mysteriously, half-smiling at Nellie with her eyes. "I always take special care, with my flower arrangements."

"Sure you do, love." Mrs Lovett mayn't have been rich. Or have tossed up yellow hair. But she knew one thing. Mrs Sedgewick's flower arrangement was far, far too forward for a dinner with guests. There was no wisteria, which would have been proper for a welcoming. Or starwort, which signified welcome to a stranger. If Nellie hadn't been on her guard before, she certainly was now.

"Do you admire the flowers, Mr Stowe?" Mrs Sedgewick went on, dragging Sweeney back into their own private conversation. Mr Sedgewick didn't seem particularly alarmed. He was talking to an elderly couple across from him.

"And so, my dear," the man next to her went on, "you must _elongate _your vowels. You will never be accepted anywhere, if you don't learn to open your mouth properly when you speak."

"I speak just fine, thanks, you pompous old walrus," Nellie said clearly, mocking his upper-class accent.

The old man stared at her, extremely stunned, and turned his chair away from her to speak to the person opposite him.

Good.

Mrs Lovett stared at the menu. She'd often longed for, but never dreamed of actually eating such marvellous treats. Such treats! Mrs Lovett sat there running her hands up and down along the lengths of the menu, unable to decide. There was Cream of Asparagus Soup, Lettuce Salad with Cheese Fingers, Baked Salmon with Sauce Hallaindaise, Roast Chicken with Potato Balls, Ham Timbales, Green Peas, Cucumber Sauce, Mousse au Chocolat, Shortbread and Vanilla Truffles, Lemon Sherbet, Strawberry Ice-cream and Coffee!

"I couldn't choose between them all," Mrs Lovett said aloud to herself. Well, she 'ad to talk to someone, an' herself would do when the rest of the company was poor.

Unfortunately, the yellow-haired snake also happened to overhear her. "Oh no," said Mrs Sedgewick, no longer bored. "You needn't _choose_ one item, Mrs Stowe. Dinner is a six-course affair."

"'Course it is," Mrs Lovett mumbled, taking an angry stab at her bread with the little silver fork. Another ridiculous _rule. _

*** * ***

Three hours later, the torture was complete.

The Baron and Baroness had retired for the evening, and after desert most of the other guests began to slowly drift away from the table and depart.

"Any coffee, tea, madam?" the butler and the other servants had set about the daunting task of clearing the dinner table.

Mrs Lovett shook her head. "No thanks dear."

The butler nodded, and went about his task.

It was embarrassing.

Mr Sedgewick was off saying his goodbyes to the guests, and where was Mrs Sedgewick?

The moment her husband was out of the room she'd seized her chance. Mrs Sedgewick had had a little fainting spell and had to be carried into the little parlour room by Mr Todd.

Mr T was in there with her now, checking her temperature. Nellie had never so angry or out of place. At least when she'd been in that stinking bakehouse, chopping off fingers and toes and grinding the grinder, she'd been in her element. And she'd had Mr Todd all to herself.

"I can't stand it no more," Nellie muttered, scraping the chair. She decided there was no good storming in there – she had to have _proof. _It wasn't as if it was hard. Months of carrying up Mr T's breakfast, quiet as the dead, had prepared her for this. She snuck to the edge of the parlour room, and peered around the frame of the wall.

Mrs Lovett shouldn't have been surprised. She knew his history. She knew Sweeney's affliction for blondes. But knowing and seeing are two quite different entities. It wasn't as if they were having it off like animals on the floor. It might have actually assured Nellie that Mr T was like any other repressed Victorian male.

But this….this was revolting.

"Thank you…._Ben_." Mrs Sedgewick was lying on the yellow settee, smiling delicately and doing her best to lay on the feminine charm. "I…..have something for you," she whispered. She made to get up.

"Don't get up," Sweeney said softly. He'd never been that gentle with Nellie.

"By the mantelpiece," Mrs Sedgewick said, pointing at a little vase. "Take a flower, for the trouble I have made you endure."

"It was no trouble," Sweeney said gruffly, and held her gaze.

At least, Mrs Lovett thought that was what he was doing, since his back was to her.

Mrs Sedgewick held up her hand, and Sweeney stared. Clearly, he was meant to kiss it.

"Goodbye, Ben," she murmured.

Nellie bounded back to the entrance, and pretended to be fiddling with her hair when he came out. But her eyes were locked onto the sprig of flowers he was holding.

He didn't even look at her.

There was no mistaking it. Nutmeg geraniums. Mrs Lovett briefly clutched the wood pane of the doorway. That woman had given him nutmeg geraniums. If Nellie hadn't tied herself up so rib-crunchingly in her corset, she might have brought up the six courses of Mrs Sedgewick's dinner.

So there it was.

Albert had never tried to win her over. But then he knew he'd easily have her. There wasn't much marriage choice for a girl of 19 with relatives as poor as church-mice. He'd been a decent man. Completely useless, mind you, but half-way decent. But he wasn't Mr T neither. Not by a long-shot.

*** * ***

They thanked Mr Sedgewick, and were out the door and down the lane when Mrs Lovett rounded on him.

"You ain't fair, Mr T," she accused, staring at him as if he'd taken his razor and sliced it clean across her neck.

"Is there a problem, Mrs Lovett?"

"Mr T. I know…I know you probly think it's none o' me business….but ya do know wot she gave you, don't cha?"

He stopped mid-step. "Spying, Mrs Lovett, still warrants a hanging in our country."

Ordinarily, his pinched, fierce glare was enough to stop her. But the snake-woman had made Nellie reckless. "And so does _adultery_….in other countries," she shot.

"We are married _in name only._ I don't see why you're being so emotional." Sweeney glowered at the small woman. He did see. It was obvious what her problem was. But he wasn't about to indulge her. He _didn't _think it was any of her business.

She tried another tack. "Don't cha wanna know wot she gave ya?"

"_Flowers,_ Mrs Lovett. I am aware of what they are."

"Yes love," Nellie ventured. In the end she blurted it all out in a rush, like steam train heading for a broken bridge. "But ya ought ta know wot they _signify."_

"You seem to be the expert," Sweeney sneered. "What do they signify, pet?" he taunted.

"I expect a meeting," Mrs Lovett said simply. "It means, she wants ta meet up wif ya."

Sweeney's eyes furrowed. "She's _married."_

"Genius you is, Mr T. 'Course she is. Ain't you never 'eard of affairs?"

And by saying that, Nellie Lovett had driven the nail into her own coffin.

He looked at her sharply.

Mrs Lovett _would_ be the type to bring up the topic of infidelity. Why was he surprised? He was sure Mrs Lovett had her share of affairs in her time. He couldn't actually imagine her _being_ with her proper husband – "Albert" or whatever it was she fondly called him. He couldn't imagine that man having relations with _any _woman. But Eleanor Lovett was another matter. Eleanor? When had he begun to think of her as Eleanor?_ Mrs Lovet_t. He could quite easily imagine _Mrs Lovett_ having it off with any man, if the offer was made. She was that sort of woman.

"I wouldn't know, Mrs Lovett. I've never had one."

He stalked off, letting her make what she wanted of it. The ring felt heavy on Sweeney's hand.

As far as he was concerned, the little gold band meant nothing. It was _Lucy_ he was married to, not her.

* * *

It was two o' clock in the morning when Toby finally woke up sober.

He found his mum baking mindlessly, kneading dough and staring blankly at the kitchen walls.

"Cup o' tea, mum?"

Mrs Lovett nodded.

They sat down at the kitchen table. Sweeney had disappeared hours ago into the attic, as usual.

The oil-lamping was burning low.

"He let her call 'im _Ben," _she cried. "He neva lets no one call 'im Ben!"

Toby rubbed the back of her shoulders.

"You oughtn't be takin' it so hard, mum. Things are meant to be this way, women and men, since time immemorial."

"I can't be acceptin' tha'," Mrs Lovett said, swiping away fast-falling tears. "I won't."

Toby gave her a kiss on the cheek, and tried to smile. Secretly, he was hoping Mr Todd died in his sleep overnight. Or maybe he could put bleach in his breakfast porridge?

"Take from me mum. Marriage is a three ring circus: engagement ring, wedding ring, and suffering."

And Toby knew it well enough. His oldest cousin, Beatrice, had ended up dead at the hands of her husband. She'd been madly in love with the rake, as his mum was for Sweeney. And Beatrice had only been married six-months when she'd been beaten dead.

"Love," Mrs Lovett said, after putting a quarter bottle of gin into her tea to calm her nerves, "is there any bleach in th' cupboard?"

"I think so," said Toby, shaking the jar and wondering if it was enough to poison Mr Todd.

"Good," Mrs Lovett rasped. That Mrs Sedgewick had it coming.

*** * ***

**Things are starting to heat up. Will Sweeney be a cad, or won't he? I can't figure him out either….**

**Just curious again….what's everyone's favourite song from Sweeney Todd?**

**Mine's **_**Kiss Me**_**, even though it wasn't in the movie =D**


	20. A Spoonful of Arsenic

**A/N: Thanks again to Firebreather23, JDLuvaSQEE, DarkDreamer97, F8WUZL8, Martin Baker and xxlindzzz for your reviews! Some of you want to smack Mrs S with potatoes, others want to wring her neck, others want to poison her. My my you've all clearly been taking lessons from Sweeney in the art of murder, it seems =D Of course, he'd be a fantastic teacher!**

**~A Spoonful of Arsenic~**

It was just one of those things. It was dead, and there was nothing anyone could do to bring it back to life.

It wasn't as if it _mattered, _not in the long-run. It was just one more sack of meat that would do nicely in a Sunday afternoon pie.

"We 'afta bury it." Toby was looking up at his mum, dead-serious.

The child had seen so much horror in his life – and now this.

_Ah well._ Couldn't be helped.

"Come on love, give it 'ere."

"No! Wot I mean is, I wanna 'old it a bit longa. Please?"

It was almost endearing, the way Toby cradled the dead bird in his arms like it was his infant sister gone too early to the grave. Too bad the thing stinked to the high heavens.

"Love, give 'er 'ere," Mrs Lovett said impatiently. "You'll catch somethin' foul nursin' that thing like it wos a babe."

She lifted the dead bird up with a glove hook she'd swiped from Mrs Sedgewick's dining table on the way out. Well, Nellie thought it was her right to get _something _out of that god-awful dinner.

It was an unusually hot morning, and the ants were marching to and fro up and down the kitchen bench. She and Toby had risen at the crack of dawn to set about weeding the garden. They'd worked four hours in the warm scorch of the early summer sun, and now Nellie was too drained to bother dealing with the little blighters invading her kitchen. Perhaps we'll bake a hot pie for lunch, Nellie half-considered, smirking at the thought of handing Mr T a piece of grimy pigeon pie. Serve 'im right, it would.

"Mum!" Toby was getting worried. "Wot u doin' wif it?"

"Burnin' it love. Don't want the plague now, do we love?" Nellie said brightly, stepping quickly into the parlour room.

It was as if she were waltzing with the dead bird, the way she skirted round the maroon chairs, and the little brocaded foot-stool. The fire-place was the only bleak thing in that room. It was black and full of last-night's coals. It reminded Nellie too much of that blasted oven in the bakehouse, and how close she'd come to being one more fried corpse heaped up on the mountain of bodies she and Mr T had butchered and burnt over the past three months.

She and Mr T.

He was up in the attic now, Nellie knew. He wouldn't come down while they were bustling about, chatting and bubbling away like little flames in the fireplace. He would wait, until she and Toby had gone out exploring in the village, or gardening in the yard. She'd considered bringing up his tea. Oh hells-bells, she'd been _longing _to bring up his tea. She'd been busting her guts all morning.

But she couldn't. It wouldn't do, to go up there all cheery as mornin' breeze and find him sittin' with his head in his hands, moanin' about Lucy – or worse, day-dreamin' about that _loathsome_ Mrs Sedgewick.

"Mum!" Toby stood in front of the fire-place. "I can't let you kill it!"

"Now Toby, no need to be gettin' all sentimental ova one filthy stinkin' pigeon. We got loads o' 'em in London. And this one's dead besides."

"I know," the boy whispered, his face suddenly clenched together like the pinched ends of Mrs Sedgewick's glove hook. "I…."

Mrs Lovett knew that expression. It wasn't Toby's face. It was the face of every sinner, of every guilty woman and man born on earth. It was the face she'd snitched glimpses of in Mr T, when he'd glanced now and then in the mirror. It was man devouring man, that face.

"Come here darlin'," Nellie soothed, and wrapped his terrified eyes into the folds of her dress. "It weren't your fault dear."

"It wos," came Toby's muffled reply. He lifted his head, and turned to stare at the fire place, still clasped in Mrs Lovett's arms. "I did it."

Mrs Lovett didn't doubt him for an instant. "Love, we all does bad things now an' then – "

"You don't understand, mum." He was staring fiercely at the bird in the dead coals, as if he might bring back to life with his eyes alone. "I _meant _it. I wanted it dead."

Bloomin' fantastic, Nellie thought. Another Mr Jack-the-Ripper in the makin'. There goes me parentin' skills down the drain. Of course, she didn't say a word of this to the boy.

"Now dear," she said softly. They could both hear the bees buzzing just outside the window. "We gotta stick togetha, you, me an' Mr T. I don't wanna 'ear none o' this bird-killin' nonsense."

Toby broke from her arms. He crouched on the floor, and gave the bird one final stroke. "I'm sorry mum," he said sullenly. The bird wasn't bruised. It had a broken neck, but that wos about all. You really couldn't tell it was dead at all.

Nellie sighed. How was she gonna explain this to Mr T? Not that he'd care. Great, useless thing. "If it means that much, we'll bury 'er."

Toby smiled.

It was too quick, too soon, that smile. He'd forgotten how to smile with his eyes. Just like Mr T. Of course, Mrs Lovett couldn't know _why _he was smiling. Or _why_ he'd broken the bird.

* * *

"Let's make this quick then," Mrs Lovett said, lifting up her yellow parasol to shade herself from the sun. She wouldn't have bothered with it at all, if it weren't for Mr T.

The sun was delicious to her. The more it sizzled against her flesh, the more alive she felt. It wasn't as if she got much of chance for a tan what with slaving away in the sweltering darkness of the bakehouse and the drizzly London sky above her year after year.

"It's already begun to rot."

Sweeney Todd stood next to Mrs Lovett, who was holding the parasol over them as if it were a sort of bridge. He was looking at the flies already beginning to buzz over the still fat feathers of the bird. The ants were already marching over the grass towards the smell of death.

"Mr T!" Mrs Lovett elbowed him in the side. "It won't 'urt us to 'umour the boy."

Toby was busying digging up a little burial plot, and hadn't heard a thing. The pigeon had been laid flat on its stomach, glassy eyes to the sky. Lucy had borne the same dumb expression, Nellie realised, when she'd plummeted down from Sweeney's barbershop and stared lifelessly toward the bright glow of the furnace.

"Sentimentality is for the weak, Mrs Lovett." He turned a critical eye to the yellow parasol. A giant sunflower. He didn't know why the woman carried it around. She was pale enough, as was he. In fact, Sweeney mused (for he liked to dwell on miserable thoughts to pass the time) if he and Mrs Lovett were to get any paler, they'd be one foot in the grave.

"What is _that?"_ he asked eventually, staring at the little bouquet of daises clutched in her right hand. For the pigeon, no doubt.

"Flowers, silly, for the ruddy bird."

He wanted to snatch them, and stamp on them. Sweeney detested Clovelly. He missed the misery of Mrs Lovett's Emporium. The stale pies and the burning gin. The unswept floors. Mrs Lovett's gritty, blood-clotted nails and unwashed hair. She had frequently annoyed him, admittedly, but at least she'd been as rotten and unkempt as him. He'd been familiar with all that. And now –

"Toby you can stop diggin' now. You is done wif that grave. Could chuck a man down a plot that deep!"

Some things, however, Sweeney smirked, had not changed. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as Mrs Lovett's face scrunched up into its usual loud-mouthed little yelps and sighs, letting loose its customary stream of cockney uncouthness.

"Bloody 'ell," she wheezed, "if there's one thing I _hate_, it's funerals."

"This, a funeral?" Sweeney raised a brow. How low they'd come, he realised, considering the funerals he and Mrs Lovett had managed to forge, all with a pair of razors and a rolling pin.

And now, a funeral for a bird.

"Well," Mrs Lovett whispered, her voice back to its usual half-cheery, half-mocking tone, "I s'pose it'll hafta make up for all them funerals we missed back in merry old London, eh, Mr T?"

Indeed, Sweeney agreed, with a nod of his head. He took the parasol, and without warning, tossed it aside.

"Lord bless its soul in 'eaven," Mrs Lovett said, and tossed the flowers over the grave.

And she took Mr Todd's arm, and made to steer him inside.

"Wait! That ain't a funeral!" Toby ran angrily up the garden path.

Mrs Lovett turned. "Why? Wot's wrong with it?"

The boy scratched his head. "There's more prayers an' stuff, I'm sure o' it."

"Love, don't you think you is a bit old for prayers?"

Toby scowled. He shouldn't be surprised. It was all that monster's fault. He'd taken his mum's yellow umbrella, and tossed it. That's why she was cross. That's why she hated funerals.

"Oh for 'eaven's sake!" Mrs Lovett took his shoulders, and squeezed them gently. "Look dear, that pigeon wos very tired, an' needs its rest. We wouldn't wanna be buggin' it now it's all nice an' cosy in its grave now, would we? It needs its pigeon sleep, afore it goes up to 'eaven an' meets all the other birdies."

"Mrs Lovett," Sweeney warned. He'd never heard such rot in all his life. "Leave lying to the Judges of this world. The boy needs to learn. Birds don't have souls. Humans don't have souls. To my knowledge, we're all going to hell."

* * *

Burying a dead bird was the last thing on Mrs Lovett's mind. She was in the kitchen, scraping the rest of the squashed ants into the tiny sink, humming as she worked. Today was the nicest day she'd had in a long time. True, she wasn't going to be able to serve Mr T or Mrs Sedgewick a filthy pigeon pie. But Nellie was of the same breed of woman as Mrs Mooney. Always had a plan, always at the ready.

"Never forget, never forgive," she muttered, giving quick little bursting smiles. If it was good enough for Sweeney, it was good enough for her. First in went the oats, then the raisins, and then a good cup of milk. She couldn't afford the butter. The last of her money had gone toward a decent-sized bottle of arsenic she'd purchased from the apothecary way back in Essex or wot ever flamin' town it wos. When she'd almost considered doing a Lucy and poisoning herself.

Silly me, Nellie thought happily, stirring the porridge into a good, thick mixture with a wooden spoon. Why poison yerself, when ya can bump off someone else?

It wasn't unusual for Mrs Lovett to be sickeningly happy. Sweeney stalked through the kitchen, barely glancing in her direction.

Nellie turned, hoping, as always, for a look or word her way. "Hungry, dear?"

"No," was his standard reply in regards to anything cheery or sentimental Mrs Lovett might have to say.

"Oh. Right then." She went back to her stirring. Might as well say it. Nellie sang out: "Mrs Sedgewick's coming for brekkie!"

He didn't come into the kitchen. But she knew he was listening."Ah."

"Well, you know me etiquette love. It's only right we return the fava, after wot a dinner she put on an' all."

"I see."

He stopped in the door frame then.

She had his attention fully now. He never paused to evaluate Mrs Lovett's unusual ensemble, and today might have been no different. But he had to speak to her now. She had on a yellow dress. Bright and airy. Fairy-like. A giant, screaming sunflower. What of it? It was no less flashy than all her other dresses. She'd done something with her hair. Not quite a bright, auburn red. Rather something else. The ends couldn't be tamed, and trailed down the knape of her neck like dried blood.

"I trust you remember our arrangement, Mrs Lovett?"

Her back was to him. She busied herself staring at the bubbles forming in the pot, but all the while she was yearning to look up and drink in his staunch frame lingering by the doorway.

"Course I do," she said flippantly, snatching stone bowls and pouring the bubbling porridge evenly into each one. "Cor! Wot I'd give for a pinch o' cinnamon."

Sweeney stepped forward thoughtfully. She appeared to have forgotten what he'd said last night. "What time is she coming?"

It was hard to pretend this was all a casual affair. Much harder, Nellie reflected, than skinning the flesh off all them bodies and breaking the bones and grinding them into mushy plop in the grinder. How she would have loved to take a piece of Mrs Sedgewick, and skin off that pale, pretty skin. Nellie cocked her head, and gripped the back of the bench, smiling up at the ceiling. Or perhaps scalp her. Yes, that gleamin' head of yellow hair would do nicely rottin' up ova the mantelpiece.

"Mrs Lovett," Sweeney growled. "Pay attention." He wondered, at times, if the woman's brain hadn't been addled by all those years spent baking mouldy pies. All those years alone. He didn't care to imagine what she was thinking about, staring up at that ceiling as if she'd glimpsed a vision of God.

He put his hand on her shoulder. At his touch, Nellie snapped to life. "Yes, dearie?" she said, flustered, looking at the bowls of porridge and then back at him. "Half past twelve, she's comin'."

"You mean _they, _Mrs Lovett." He was staring at the bowls now too. A pitiful attempt to pretend he was indifferent.

"No," Nellie said almost too casually. "Mr Sedgewick is busy wif 'is hat-shop. Makin' lots of orders for the summer-time tourists, apparently. So I though to meself, poor Mrs S, stuck up in that house wif her bratty little child. She needs female company, an' so she's comin' Mr T, whetha you like it or not."

Of course Sweeney wasn't going to protest. "I might return by noon," he said, heading for the front door.

"Oi! Where you goin' then?" She'd left the empty pot burning on the stove, and had run forward in that giant sun-flower dress, still clutching the wooden spoon. Her bottom lip had dropped, as if she were a child about to swallow a spoonful of medicine.

"To get the cinnamon, my pet." He left, his eyes briefly lingering on the yellow dress.

*** * ***

Nellie Lovett wasn't a fisher-wife. In fact, she and Albert had barely had three or four decent rip-roaring arguments the entire time they'd been married. Part of that was due to the fact that Albert was far too fat to muster up the energy. The other reason was all their crockery was Albert's mother's wedding present, and she felt bad about smashing it up.

But all that was long done with.

"Bloody liar!" Nellie picked up the scorching pot, and hurled it fiercely across the kitchen. "Cinnamon me arse! As if we 'ave money for cinnamon. Bet he's gone ova to ask that slimy snake-woman – "

And then, as if the clouds had suddenly been stripped from her brow and Nellie could see far, far beyond to where the dawn broke again the following day – she brightened.

"To-by!"

"Yes mum?" Toby came breathlessly from the back yard, his hands and face smeared with dirt.

"Put this 'ere bowl on the table. Now, don't you touch it, mind. It's Mrs Sedgewick's special bowl, an' she's ta 'ave first taste since she's our guest o' honour, an' wot not."

Toby nodded. He didn't care about porridge. He had his own plans."Can I 'elp wif the tea, mum? We hafta 'ave tea wif the porridge. Can I make it?"

"Corse ya can, dearie. Go make yerself at 'ome."

While Toby was busy boiling and stirring tea and hunting down tea-cups, Nellie took the jar of arsenic out of her dress, and unscrewed the stopper. At first she was tempted to dump the whole bloody lot in, but Nellie wasn't a fool. It wouldn't do to kill her off straightaway. Too obvious. No, the thing to do was pop in a little at a time, so she wouldn't notice a thing.

She put four drops in, and stoppered the bottle. Back into her corset it went. Afterwards, all she had to was stir it thoroughly. Nellie was feeling much, much brighter. "We might 'ave Mrs S ova every weekend, from now on. Wot you think, Toby love?"

"I don't mind a bit, mum," he sang back to her in their sing-song little rhyme. He was stirring the tea alright. While his mum was turned, he grabbed the jar of bleach from under the sink, and plopped a few spoonfuls in. Not enough to kill him, mind. He didn't want the police botherin' his mum so soon. Just enough to addle that demon's brain. Stop him from harmin' another poor soul again.

For Toby hadn't forgotten. And he wouldn't forgive. "It's just right, mum. This one here's for Mr Todd." He placed the tea-cup by the window sill.

"That's nice, dear." Mrs Lovett smiled, and sashayed over to the porridge bowl. Lunch-times were going to be _heavenly, _she could tell.

**Next chapter: Two people **_**will be**_** POISONED. SOMEONE'S going to get clobbered with a SACK OF POTATOES. And TWO PEOPLE are going to have a _romantic_ interlude. Review this chap, and guess who! Thanks to Firebreather23 and F8WUZL8 for you wicked suggestions, I now have PLENTY of ideas mwhahahaha....**


	21. Strawberries and Cream

**A/N: Greetings my sweenett guzzling friends! I have no excuses for the lateness of this chapter, except for stupid LIFE, which tends to get in the way of my errant Sweenett/Toddett fantasies. This is going to be a two-part chapter, since I'm currently snow-balled with uni work. Stupid uni work *darts evil barber glares at her professors***

***At last, Mrs Lovett _finally _gets some _attention._ It took 20 chapters, but we're getting there people!**

**~Strawberries and Cream~**

"And Mr Darcy proposed, and he and Lizzie Bennett lived happily ever after minus chatty mothers and over-bearing aunts."

Nellie Lovett flung the book against the mantelpiece. It narrowly missed the copper clock, the blue china swan, and the porcelain couple holding hands on the ebony stand. It bounced off the fireplace, and landed by the armchair.

"Flamin' Mr Darcy an' his flamin' gen'lemunly qualities!" Mrs Lovett stared at the book on the floor, and snatched it up.

The point of reading a romance novel, as most ladies of breeding and education knew, was to be pleasantly diverted from the troublesome duties of embroidery work, piano study, and afternoon teas. Well, at least that was what it said in Sarah Saintelm's Women's Advice column in the London papers.

Nellie thought it was a load of codswallop. She barely ever had time for diversion, and when she _did_ have the time, diversions were never much fun. What good were the use of romances, when every widow in London town knew marriage and men only ended up with a coffin, a gold ring that had to be pawned for meat, and fifteen years of misery pining for the man you could never have?

Still, the baker read them. She _needed_ to read them, when all she had was the reality, Mr Grumpy Pants upstairs, moaning and groaning over his lot in life. Yes, reading _Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice_ – all of it kept her sane. Oh, she read other things too. _The History of Spain, Mr Darwin's Theory of Evolution, Les Miserables_ – whatever she happened to pick up on the cheap, really. Nellie prided herself on the fact that her mind didn't match her body. She might waltz about in her low neck outfits, her frill-and-glitter collars, her scandalously figure-hugging outer corsets, and her bursting bustle skirts – but her mind was as sharp as Mr T's razors.

A sudden wave flooded her. The baker pressed her hand against her round forehead. It certainly wasn't the gin – she'd laid off it for the day. Had to be wide-awake for when the snake-woman came for Lunch. There was no way Nellie would miss a poisoning. What was it then?

She'd never had a heart problem in her life, and yet, for what seemed to last ten minutes or so, Nellie felt short of breath. Her chest tightened, and no amount of massaging the hollow in between her breasts would sooth it. She sat very still. Maybe I'm havin' an heart-attack! The thought depressed her – a heart-attack, an' now I'll drop dead an' Mr T an' me will never get the chance ter –

Nellie's heart thudded, thinking of what might pass – what _would _pass, if she died this very minute. Mr T certainly wouldn't cry. He might feel a little sorry. Who was gonna darn his socks, wash his shirts and bring him bloody cups of tea? He might drop a flower on her grave, if she was lucky. And then three weeks later, perhaps even less, he'd pay a visit to Mrs Sedgewick, and clobber Mr Sedgewick with a sack of potatoes, and run off into the sunset with the new Lucy – that dratted Mrs _Snakewick. _Yes, Nellie realised glumly. If she died today, her tombstone would read:

_Eleanor Lovett, 42, widow, baker, floozy, chatter-box. _

That was her grand 'epiphany.'

"Mum!" Toby hollered, bursting into the living room. "Mr Todd wants his tea now. _Right away," _the boy emphasised, knowing how the barber would fly into his rages when he woke up feeling suddenly disserved by the world. That, and he was bursting to see Mr Todd puff up like a fish and writhe on the floor screaming for someone to ebb the pain. But when Toby's dream came true and he was standing over a helpless, squealing Mr Todd, he would do nothing to stop it. He would laugh, and point, and say "ain't it ironic how all your life you spent servin' up people dead people, and now you is the one poisoned."

"Love, relax," Mrs Lovett said, sitting up her chair and stretching. Pretending to look rested. The book slid off her lap, and landed with a thump on the ground. "Mr will get it in good time, you'll see."

But the boy was agitated. "Gad mum you look awful!" He kept buzzing round her like a house fly until at last she got to her feet, picked up the book, and staggered into the kitchen to face the blinding midday sun.

"All in good time, dearie, all in good time."

She'd spent the past hour on the high-backed chair – naturally she had a stiff back and her legs were still numb after being tucked beneath her heavy skirts. Well, if she couldn't snuggle up to Mr Todd, at least she could pretend with her books.

Of course, Mr T didn't think she could read at all, that was how little he knew about her. He'd seen her with a book in her lap and a cup of tea in the other and demanded to know why she was bothering to learn her ABCs at such a late stage in her life.

"We're all dead after forty," he'd said, and stormed up to his barbershop wearing his customary gloomy countenance.

If only the bloomin' bugga knew. What she dared. What she dreamed. Always in her head. It half-irked her sometimes, the way Mr T went harping on about his loved ones, as if Nellie were a clam-shell he'd picked up on the beach and decided to talk to, only because he didn't have anyone else to confide in. He didn't consider that she also mourned for the dead – after all, Mr Todd was as dead as they came.

And now she was up and off to give the great dead thing his tea. Nellie wanted nothing more to retreat to her fantasy world by the sea where she and Mr T shared a giant slice of watermelon between them until they eventually reached the centre and had no more seeds to spit out.

"Mrs Lovett!"

She heard Sweeney roar on the stairs. Ooh, he was cranky that one. Hadn't had his cuppa this morning, and that usually made him as mad as a caterpillar.

"Comin' Mr T!"

Dutifully, she fetched the blasted tea Toby had made, gave it three good stirs, and away she flew.

*** * ***

"I have a headache."

"Well that ain't my fault Mr T."

"I didn't have one before you came."

"Maybe it's the tea," she suggested, watching the barber down the rest of the cup in one sitting.

He spotted his sleeve against his mouth, and set the cup against the desk. Mrs Lovett had the feeling he was treating the bedroom just as if it were his old tonsorial parlour. It had got to the stage where Mrs Lovett was knocking on the attic door and bringing up his breakfast every morning so that he wouldn't have to face Mrs Lovett's cheery face and Toby's infant one at the breakfast table. Nothing had changed.

"No, it's not the tea. Make it stronger next time, Mrs Lovett."

"You still drank it," she sniffed, taking the empty cup-and-saucer away slightly offended.

"Is…when is lunch?"

Since when did Sweeney Todd care about human sustenance? No, it was blonde locks and angel smiles he was holding out for.

Mrs Lovett turned on the threshold, giving him a withering look. It was pointless putting on pretence in front of her. She could wear a full-button school-marm suit, and a bonnet, and still undress the world with her eyes. "Soon, love. I expect Mrs S will be 'ere any minute. Why don't you just come down?"

Sweeney came.

*** * ***

Of all the mothers in the world, Mrs Lovett knew she wasn't the best. But, she liked to console herself that she wasn't the _worst._ When she stumbled into the kitchen or parlour or bathroom in the middle of the night and found Toby dead to the world in a drunken slumber, it disheartened her a little to think she couldn't have hid the gin a bit better. But, being half-drunk herself half the time, it didn't seem fair to let the boy stay sober and watch _her _having a marvellous time. At least he was getting' his drunken education _now, _instead of glassin' some helpless old man or child on the street in a gin-fuelled rage if he reached the ripe of age of sixteen.

"Mum, me tummy feels funny."

Toby put the spoon down on the table, and clutched his middle. His eyes were looking unusually dark and ringed.

"The boy gorged himself. He deserves it," Sweeney sneered. He never could stand little boys.

"Don't be daft," Mrs Lovett snapped, pushing past the barber. She dropped on the floor beside the boy, and her heavy skirts protected her knees from the hard tiles.

"Wot's wrong, dear?" Although she knew perfectly well what was wrong.

It was at that crucial moment that Mrs Sedgewick decided to announce her presence.

Three sharp little knocks issued at the door. Sweeney looked up. "I'll answer it," he said, and strode off, taking his purposeful barber steps.

Of course _he _wouldn't notice anything was wrong.

"Mum, I'm gonna hurl," Toby said, stumbling to his feet in the direction of the bathroom.

"That's it love," she followed after him. "Do wot you gotta do."

"Is anyfin' wrong wif Mr T?" Toby said, in between hurls.

Mrs Lovett felt another stab of guilt. Kind lad. Always thinkin' o' others. Wot would he think o' me, if he knew…."Now Toby, ain't no need to fret. Mr T is strong as an ox. He almost neva gets sick. Woteva tummy bug you 'as, I'm sure you'll be right as rain."

The boy's face contorted, and disappeared over the side of the bath again, retching with all his might into the white tub.

"Now love, you stay there." Nellie got to her feet. "Be back in a tic."

She walked into the kitchen, accompanied by the musical sounds of Toby bringing up the entire bowl of the arsenic-doused porridge.

There she found them, Mrs Sedgewick already seated in _Nellie's chair, _and Mr T sitting across from her. Mrs Sedgewick was laughing like a linnet bird in a starched white dress complete with a heavy silver cross. Mr Todd was, predictably, stone-cold unresponsive. But he was _staring _at her.

"Well now, seems you two is nice an' cosy," Nellie said in her best busy-and-bustling voice. In one swift movement she swiped away the empty porridge bowl off the table, and began making fresh cups of tea.

"Charming little kitchen, Mrs Stowe. And what a charming yellow dress!" Mrs Sedgewick watched her from the table, also decorated in a yellow table-cloth. But she made no move to help.

Nellie turned from the sink, bearing two fresh cups of tea. "Yes, I 'ave a fondness for yellow. Reminds me o' the sun." At the mention of 'yellow', Mr Todd bristled. It didn't escape Nellie's notice. She dumped the tea-cups on the cloth, not out spite, but because Nellie never strived to be delicate. Quite deliberately, she reached over and gave Mr T's hand a squeeze. "Drink it down, love."

At every available opportunity throughout the lunch, Mrs Lovett did her best to show off her wedding ring. When she stirred the tea, she made sure the ring was facing the snake-woman. When she took lumps of sugar from the sugar tin, and spoonfuls of porridge, she stopped to give the ring a good twist and turn.

It was painfully obvious to Sweeney what Mrs Lovett was doing, and he wished he could have taken her left hand and chopped off her left finger that wore the glittering reminder.

Mrs Lovett was wishing she'd poisoned the entire pot of porridge that morning. That way, at least _one _of them might be put out of their misery.

And Mrs Sedgewick….she was full of admiration for the man who'd married his wife simply because he pitied her for being a penniless widow. Generous Mr Stowe!

For the second time that day, domestic bliss was interrupted by a knock on the door.

As far as Mrs Lovett was concerned, it couldn't have come any sooner. She'd rather stick pins in her own eyes than be stuck a moment more in the same room as that woman. She got up.

"Now, who could that be?"

"Mum!" Toby shrieked, on the verge of another vomiting cycle.

Nellie stood, torn between the door and the boy.

"Allow me," Mrs Sedgewick smiled frostily, clearly put off by the cacophany in the next room. "You have a sick child that needs attending."

She got up and minced to the door, leaving Mr and Mrs Stowe to face their demons.

*** * ***

"Is there a Mr and Mrs Stowe available?"

Mrs Sedgewick remembered the man well.

It wasn't a habit of Mrs Sedgewick's to pay much attention to men of the law – but this one was different. He wasn't at all handsome. His skin wasn't of that fine, porcelain quality that so well matched Mr Sedgewick's flame-red hair. Lithgow was rough and weathered like the outside panes of a London shop-front, and it suited him nicely. In a sense, that wary, bearded face was intriguing in the same manner that Mr Stowe's face intrigued her. Neither men were particularly educated or gentlemanly handsome, but here Mrs Sedgewick was, smiling like a virgin at a tea-party, admiring Constable Lithgow's weathered brown eyes.

They were the exact colour, she observed, of crumbling autumn leaves just before the winter was due.

"Constable Lithgow, is it?"

He nodded, tipping his bowler hat. "Mrs Sedgewick. I wasn't aware you lived here," he half-jested.

"I don't. Visiting neighbours, you see…" She trailed off. "They are currently engaged," Mrs Sedgewick continued pleasantly, "with an ill child."

"I hope it's nothing serious," said Lithgow automatically, his face deliberately blank.

"So do I. Perhaps it would be more prudent to call again later?"

The constable tipped his hat again. "I shall do so."

Mrs Sedgewick followed him as he trailed the garden path to the gate. "When?" As handsome as he was, she didn't like the idea of him intruding on her and Mr...

"I will return." He didn't elaborate. The constable had travelled very far, talked to hundreds of strangers. It paid to be wary.

*** * ***

Was it possible to lose someone, when you never had them to begin with?

This was what Nellie found herself pondering on the staircase, after she'd tucked Toby in bed and sung him some silly nonsense songs until the poor child's exhausted eyes shut in fairy-sleep. If he died tomorrow and never woke up, Nellie knew exactly what her fate would hold. No more roses. No more meringues and gardening and dreams of cutting the silver streak out of Mr Todd's hair. If she lost Toby, she'd be sent straight to that special part of hell reserved for murdering mothers.

The baker could protest until she was blue in the face, but no one in those merciless fiery pits would forgive her or show her a jot of mercy. And why should they? She and Mr T had never known, or shown much mercy. It was all an' eye for an' eye in this bitter, blinking world.

"Where is she?" She found Mr Todd tending quietly to the fireplace, as if he were feeding a new-born child with the remains of its mother's milk.

"Gone. You took a while, Mrs Lovett."

"Yes well 'e wos sick. Not that you'd give a damn if eitha o' us dropped – "

Sweeney turned, still crouching amidst the heated coals. "He's your child, Mrs Lovett, not mine."

It was a barren little place, their living room, for all its colour. Nellie collapsed in the armchair, feeling as heavy as a pregnant woman. Not that she really knew how that felt. In all her years, Nellie had watched the people she loved curl and wilt about her like rotten orchids. There was Benjamin, her two miscarriages, Albert, and later all the customers she'd watched go up for a shave and watched descend into her foul bakehouse. Yes, Nellie was adept at taking life.

Toby was just the matchstick in the bonfire.

"I have a proposition, Mrs Lovett."

The baker shut her eyes. She was sick o' Mr T and his damn 'propositions.' "Oh leave me alone, Mr T."

She heard the crackling of flames, and the barber spoke: "There must be imps in the air, my pet."

Mrs Lovett nodded, as if she were in a dream. "Why is that, love?"

"Normally, it is _my _job to refuse, and _yours_ to proposition." He half-smiled.

It _was _a dream. Mrs Lovett shot up. "Wot's wrong love? Is you dyin'?"

His face briefly glowered under the ebb of the flames. "Not today, my dear." He took out his razor, and began to carve slits into the upholstery of the armchair across from her.

Nellie shivered. "Wot you hangin' round for then?" She entertained the briefpossibility…

"How would you like, Mrs Lovett, to go for a…._picnic_."

_He's really flipped, _she thought, staring at those incomprehensible depths. But who was she to question the way those cogs turned? "Wot, now?" Nellie could hardly believe it.

"_Carpe diem, _my love." And he stalked off to wait for her in the garden.

*** * ***

It wasn't surprising that Mrs Lovett was late. It was no surprise either, to see her emerge from the house decked head to toe in a red bathing suit with white bows, cuffs and buttons and a detachable bustle skirt at the back, red boots with white ribbons, a white parasol with a red handle and frame, and hair piled high with red and white satin ribbons. In her right arm, she heaved a wicker picnic basket through the front door, laden with hell knows what rubbish.

"Heading for the circus, are we my pet?"

Mrs Lovett frowned, biting her lip instead of returning the comment. At least he called her 'his pet.'

"Is we off now, Mr T? Or should you insult me some more?"

"That, my dear, is entirely up to you." He took her arm, swept the basket onto his spare arm, and guided them out the garden and down the lane.

"Where is we goin', dear?" As usual, Mrs Lovett had done most of the chatting, and hadn't noticed the crooked laneways disappear into hedge and shrub and wild rose bushes. Well, she'd _noticed, _but hadn't paid it much mind. And now they were wandering up a curious dusty path that led them further and further away from the village and up to where the clouds foamed like whipped cream and the sky took on a freer hue.

"Away, Mrs Lovett. Away for a while."

"You couldn't know how long I dreamed this, Mr T," Nellie sighed, suffocating his arm as though she were a crab crunching him with her pincer.

He couldn't. He'd never dreamed of such trifles.

"Where is you takin' me, Mr – "

Nellie gasped. Row by row, the crumbling grey tombstones comfortably lined the grassy field like ancient troops clinging to their place of battle. They wandered among the freshly cut tombs with angels and cherubims, among the moss-ridden, unreadable graves. Nellie bent down, and made out 1783 on one of the graves. "Blimey, Mr T, these are fair ancient."

She straightened, clutching his arm again. His eyes scanned the unspoiled field. "Just beyond here, my dear."

He led her to where the white iron fence was peeling, and a little beyond that, a grass field covered in dandelions appeared to have sprung up overnight.

"Mr T, the sea!"

Below them, the ocean lay flat, like some gorged monster. They couldn't see the cliff, for the weeds came up in a spindly mess just where the field ended. But less than ten steps away, Sweeney knew, lay the crashing platform where land met sea, and the tide gargled and spat itself around the rocks. It too, was a graveyard for the poor souls who had thrown themselves down into that white-foam oblivion.

"Come away from the edge, my dear," he cautioned, dragging Mrs Lovett back into the middle of the field.

For all her bubbling happiness, Mrs Lovett couldn't fathom it. Why was he suddenly calling her 'his pet,' 'his dear,' 'his love.' Hadn't he been telling her all this time to forget anything more than cold partnership between them?

Nellie didn't speak for a while. She helped Mr Todd to spread out the picnic basket, and then set about putting out the plates and knives and forks and the fresh punnet of strawberries and the little jar of whipped cream she'd loaned from the kind woman down the road.

"Strawberries and cream." Sweeney raised a brow.

"Wot, don't tell me you is gonna object to a little desert, Mr T?" Nellie beamed, and shoved the wicker basket out of the way. She detached the bustle from the back of her bathing suit, so that she was left wearing the red-bloomer suit. "And I thought we wos off to go bathin'."

Sweeney escaped to the edge of the blanket as if he were about to plunge off a ledge.

Nellie got up from her side of the blanket, brought the strawberries and cream, and plopped down beside him. "Now Mr T, this whole picnic idea wos your idea. Don't be anti-social, love."

The barber folded his arms into his lap, looking at the flowers flopping in the field. Yellow. All of it yellow. He looked up, and saw her absent-mindedly spooning large helpings of cream on-top of the strawberries on her plate. Didn't she know how hard this was?

"Did you mourn Albert?"

Mrs Lovett paused mid-spoon. "Course I did," she said, regarding him sharply. "Only it wos different wif 'im." She began to eat the strawberries, and the cream dribbled down the side of her mouth and onto her chin.

"I'm at a loss, Mrs Lovett." He left the strawberries untouched.

"Don't see 'ow. He lived, 'e died. I cared for 'im, in me own way."

"You mean loved," Sweeney corrected.

Mrs Lovett wasn't eating now. He'd hit on a nervy subject. "No, I mean wot I say. Love ain't that simple definin'."

"I loved Lucy," Sweeney offered. It was as simple as that. What could be so difficult to define?

"Yes love," Mrs Lovett sighed, pushing the plate away. "I know you do. But a person can feel different things for different people."

He didn't know what she was on about, or if he did, he didn't want to ponder it. Mrs Lovett watched him shovel the punnet of strawberries around with his fork. She took a breath, smoothed down her corset, and moistened her lips. It was now or never.

"Close your eyes, Mr T."

He stared at her, wondering why she was staring at him so intently all of a sudden, and why she kept touching the corners of her lips as if she were afraid they might fall off…

"I'm not in the habit of playing games."

"Neitha am I, _my love," _she said, her voice noticeably lowering. She looked down at the strawberry punnet at the same time he did. It was all done very deliberately, and like a person watching an accident from the sidelines, he found himself frozen in stasis.

Nellie picked a strawberry, and with her free hand gripped his shoulder suddenly. She got up on her knees in the bathing-suit, bent forward, and….

"I'm not a dog, Mrs Lovett. I will feed myself."

"Just open them, love. It'll be ova before you know it."

Sweeney found himself obeying.

She bent forward, and slipped the strawberry into the depths of his mouth. For some odd reason, Mrs Lovett found it necessary to close her eyes, and shiver as if she were cold. Sweeney kept his eyes open, and chewed carefully on the fruit until it was nothing but crushed red juice that ran down his throat like the blood of the slain.

"'ow wos that, Mr T?" she repeated, hand still gripping his shoulder.

"I've had better," Sweeney said stone-faced, concentrating on the grass beneath the blanket.

"Wot about this one, then? Close your eyes this time, mind. Please," she began.

Sweeney realised the dangerous path of chatter that Mrs Lovett was wandering on, and he closed them. Just to shut her up.

"That's betta," he heard her say, and he opened his mouth, expecting another red fruit.

Instead, cool hands pressed against the sides of his cheeks, and something that was not fruit darted against the corners of his lips.

Nellie was in her dreams.

She tested his thin little lips, and moistened them against her own. It was like stealing inside the monster's cave. The taste of strawberries still lingered between them, and she eased her mouth on top of his, encircling him as if they were two buds pressed together. She waited, her fingers still stuck against those forbidden cheeks. Even a little breeze threatened to shake them apart. She felt his cheeks warm against her. He leaned forward, hesitating. She felt him exhale against the tip of her nose, and he pressed back, those chafed, worn lips doing their best to meet her.

And then the wind shook. The plates scattered. Benjamin forgot who he was.

He got up, and left her breathless from merely sitting.

"Where are you going…?"

"Forgot the…tea," Sweeney said. "The tea, Mrs Lovett, the tea."

It happened before Nellie even knew it happened. He'd leapt to his feet, shaken his jacket free of grass, and ran off through the graves.

He'd left her alone to mind the strawberries and cream.

*** * ***

**So – two people have been poisoned, and the romantic interlude has taken place. BUT – who is going to get clobbered with a sack of potatoes? Special mention to those smart cookies who can guess!**


	22. Split

**A/N: In Which Mrs Lovett Gets Slightly Desperate, Mr Todd Gets Up To No Good, and A Mysterious Stranger Turns Up.  
**

**~Split~**

Of all the dreams Mrs Lovett had dreamed over the course of her human life, lying alone on a picnic blanket beside a graveyard cliff-top was not one of them.

Mr Todd would only be gone twenty minutes. Well, that was how it had _seemed _when he'd suddenly leapt up all flustered mumbling something about getting tea.

He had promised her, Nellie imagined.

In her daydream, Mr Todd was dressed up nice and spiffy in a red and black bathing suit that matched hers, and comfy beach sandals. He took her by the hand, kissed the inside of her palm, thanked her profusely for the strawberries, and straightened up awkwardly and said he was very sorry but he had forgotten to bring the tea. But of course, thought Nellie smiling away idiotically, the "tea" was just a ruse. When he came back, he would have a special sapphire ring in his pocket….no no, a silver necklace with little daises around the chain…or perhaps a simple pair of marquisette earrings fashioned in the shape of butterflies.

"Ooh Mr Todd," she said out loud, puckering her lips up to receive one of his broken kisses…

And kissed the air.

Nellie knew full well Mr Todd had promised her nothing. One minute they had been kissing (if you could call Sweeney's tentative, half-mustered kiss a kiss) – the next he had left her with the plates and cutlery cluttered at her feet.

It was only a kiss, she reminded herself mournfully – and yet she felt as empty and used as if Mr T had spent the night with her and disappeared come morning. Nellie snorted. As if that would happen.

Mr T only made promises that involved shedding blood. The baker very much doubted if he knew of _other_ sorts of promises. The sort of promises that people made together in the dead of night, when they had given themselves up to the darkness and comfort of each other's arms. Not that Nellie had ever experienced such wild abandon with another man. In fact, being with Albert had nearly ruined her hunger for _that_ kind of intimacy completely.

She stretched out over the blanket, and turned her wondering eyes to the sky.

It was the sort of clear, resplendent blue that sent grumpy old men scuttling outside to read the paper in the garden, young couples running down to the seashore to make love on the sand, and husbands and wives and their children walking down to the promenade to fly kites and sing songs about mermaids and pirates and adventures beyond the horizon where the sun never sets.

That same ageless sky also brought out middle-aged widowed bakers into the sunshine, picking at the threads of their youth and casting out streamers of hope that only seemed to end in shredded tatters.

"One strawberry for me, an' one for Mr T," she muttered childishly, picking up a tender strawberry and kissing it softly.

It was slightly blotchy and bruised, and not entirely red at the leafy end. When she finally crushed the fruit in her mouth, the taste was bitter, and nothing at all like the strawberries she had shared with her beloved barber. If strawberries could be compared to people, Nellie thought, Mr Todd was that bitter, slightly rotten strawberry.

Suddenly the wind kicked up, lifting up Mrs Lovett's umbrella and carrying it up into the air like a kite. She raced after it, tumbling over wildflowers and the laces of her boots. The umbrella bobbed just beyond her reach. It floated over the cliff-side, and Nellie could only watch sadly as the floating red mushroom went out over the ocean and toward the sunset.

"Lucky thing," she crowed spitefully.

*** * ***

Voices woke Toby from his fever. He had always been a light sleeper, but lately he had taken to keeping one ear above his blanket in case his mum was in any danger.

"Mum?" Toby stumbled blearily out of bed, his stomach still heaving with sickness. His head pounded and his hands still shook. He would never tell her, for fear of hurting her feelings, but Toby had promised himself never to eat another bowl of porridge as long as he lived. At least, any porridge cooked by his mum.

The voices were coming from the kitchen.

He came down the stairs carefully, one hand gripping the ebony balustrade. Every morning he was gripped by thoughts of blood and murder and bludgeoning. His deepest fear was to wake from blissful sleep and find his mum sprawled and bloody in the kitchen, her pretty milk throat spilt like a goat. And Mr Todd, standing over her body, smirking satisfactorily, would wipe his razors clean on the table-cloth. That was his countless replayed vision.

Toby sighed when he found no such scene.

Instead Mr Todd was sitting at the kitchen table, his back to him. Toby expected to see his mum sitting directly opposite, smiling cheerfully and patting her dejected partner's hand.

But his mum was nowhere.

Someone was patting Mr Todd's hand alright, but it wasn't her. It was that awful blonde woman, the one his mum called a snake. Mrs Sedgewitch or whatever her name was. And she did remind Toby of a snake, darting secretive little looks up and down at Mr Todd whenever she was able. She even had the nerve to stroke his hand, lean forward, and whisper something in his ear.

Toby's blood boiled. He'd forgotten about his sickness for the time being. From the bottom of the staircase, he scowled at the two traitors as if scowling could turn them both to stone. He didn't know a great deal about that relationship stuff, but he knew as sure as the sun rose and set his mum was "wild" for Mr Todd. That's why she'd taken so long dressing for the picnic, and run all the way down the street to take a special punnet of strawberries for that bleedin' serial killer.

Suddenly it all fell into place.

If Mr Todd and his mum were meant to be on a picnic together, what was Mr Todd doing back here cavorting with this sneaky snake woman? And where was his mum?

There was only one thing for it. Toby snuck down the stairs and hid behind the corner of the corridor. He could hear them quite clearly now.

"I think of her every hour," Mr Todd confessed, scraping his chair against the floor.

He must be getting up, Toby thought.

"I am sure she thinks of you, in heaven," Mrs Sedgewick said sweetly.

"Do you think..." began Mr Todd, struggling to find the words, "she could _forgive me?"_

"Whatever it is you have done Ben," the blonde woman said, "I know _I _would forgive you."

"That is nothing," Sweeney murmured, pacing up and down the kitchen in his heavy boots. "Your allegiance is to your husband. Mine is to my dead wife."

"Of course," said Mrs Sedgewick soothingly. "But that isn't to say we cannot…"

At that point, her voice trailed off. Toby heard the sound of her chair slide, and imagined the snake woman getting up to comfort Mr Todd. It was the sort of thing his mum would have done.

For a long time, perhaps as long as five minutes, Toby heard nothing but silence.

Then, as if from under the floorboards, Mr Todd's voice came out brokenly: "You have her neck. And her yellow hair."

Toby shook.

If Mr Todd discovered him here he would be slit from ear to ear. He could also tell straight away from her voice that Mrs Sedgewitch didn't give a toss about Mr Todd's dead wife. Mr Todd didn't seem to notice. But then his mum _did_ say Mr Todd was always daft when it came to discussing his "feelings."

Without waiting to hear another word, Toby snuck back up the stairs. He didn't mind so much if Mr Todd bludgeoned the snake woman. But he felt very certain that if his mum knew of what Mr Todd had been up to, she would not smile or sing anymore.

Toby tucked himself back under his bed covers, and began to wait. He did not sleep.

*** * ***

After an hour of fruitless waiting, Nellie packed the cups and plates and folded the picnic blanket back into the basket.

The sun was well below the horizon. The remaining strokes of pink and orange cloud were all that were left of the smouldering sunset. She had hoped Mr T would watch it with her, but half an hour, forty-five minutes, an hour passed. No Mr Todd.

Nellie's picnic fantasy was dashed.

The basket seemed much heavier on the way back down the track, and it was as if she were carrying all her memories of their life together so far – if she dared call it a life.

How she envied those other normal people who only had to clean up eggshells and burnt toast after breakfast, instead of blood. There had been a time when Nellie had even relished the thought of washing Mr Todd's soiled shirts. It had been her special date. Every Friday afternoon, she had been allowed to at least smell Mr T on his shirts. The idea that she was also sniffing the blood of Sweeney Todd's dead customers never occurred to her.

The sound of raucous laughter brought Nellie out of her daydream. She had reached the end of the track, and nearly tripped over the village cobblestones. The houses were all alight with evening fires.

"Goin' to the circus me dear?!"

A group of fisher-men laden with nets and bait wolf-whistled at the sight of Mrs Lovett coming down from the pathway in her red bathing suit. The men were red from sun-burn and hard work and welcomed the sight of this odd creature smiling mysteriously at them.

"That's right gen'lemen." She smiled at them without any sign of self-consciousness. At least _somebody _noticed her.

They dipped their hats at her as they passed, and long after they had gone round the bend Mrs Lovett stood there forlorn, clutching the picnic basket.

Home was just five houses down the road. But she did not want to go home.

What if Mr Todd was there, burying his heart in the attic and sending up prayers to his dead wife? Nellie wondered whether he would still pray for Lucy if he discovered how she had died. For once she had no sympathy in her heart for his sorrows. He had taken her on a picnic, and abandoned her there. There was nothing gentlemanly in that.

Instead of walking back the usual way, Nellie Lovett headed off in the opposite direction, up the steep hill where the houses of Clovelly looked increasingly more and more inviting. She passed the barbershop, the butcher's, the bakery, and the tea-and-jam store. At the very end of the hill sat the New Inn, gleaming white under the sparse lights. Nellie ignored it, and kept walking until the street tapered off into a narrow lane where hedges grew together in a narrow arch. She squeezed through, and went down a flight of white pebbled steps.

There was a garden of foxglove and lavender and hollyhock spilling over onto the path, and at the very end was a cottage. It was white-washed with a black slate rooftop like the rest of the village houses. The curtains were drawn, but warm light still shone through. Little puffs of smoke shot up through the chimney. Nellie thought no one would notice if she sat on the garden bench for a little while and rest her feet. A small grey fountain stood right in the middle of the garden, and she stared miserably at the stone couple about to embrace.

Such was the extent of her misery Mrs Lovett did not hear the cottage door being unlatched.

A scruffily dressed man dressed in loose pants, an old maroon coat and a mustard coloured hat stepped out into the garden.

She was oblivious to the world, until he spoke.

"Pardon miss," he began, raising his voice so he wouldn't startle her. "There's no need to wait. You may come straight in."

"Wot?" Mrs Lovett was so stunned by the sight of him, she hardly knew whether to sit or run.

This dark-skinned Bohemian man with long, unkempt hair was the last person she had been expecting. He had shaved his beard slightly since then, but it hardly made a difference. She would have recognised him anywhere. It was the stranger from the train.

She picked up her basket instinctively. "Don't cha recognise me?"

At the sound of her distinctive accent, the man broke into a grin. It was so odd to have someone smile at her like that. It made the beautiful garden pale and seem dull in comparison.

"Ah yes! The widow who refused to tell me her name." He fell to silence, and began to study her seriously.

Nellie couldn't help feeling a little strange, having the stranger's roving eyes contemplate every nook and cranny of her skin and clothes.

Eventually, he spoke. "And I am the fruit-cake from Bedlam, as I remember you calling me."

"I'm sorry dear but you did give me half a fright knockin' inter me like that on the train!" She did not blush, or look down, but cast her eyes up at him, and laughed wildly.

"Without your bonnet, I did not recognise you," said the stranger, coming to sit by her on the bench. "Now you truly look like an artist's model." He stared appreciatively at her red bathing suit. "You promised to sit for me, I remember."

"Told you I was a dead witherin' flower too," Nellie reminded him, "but I didn't promise you nothin'."

"But you are no longer dead," he said seriously, removing his mustard hat so that she might see his eyes better. "You have come into spring."

"Bloom," Nellie corrected him. But she could hardly argue with that. They _were_ sitting in a garden in the middle of spring.

"Is that your house?" Mrs Lovett said quickly, casting her gaze away from his intense expression.

"No. It is an artists' studio. We paint and draw there and have exhibitions every month. You are most welcome to model for us," he pressed, staring at her again. "We are painting another woman as we speak, if you would care to watch?"

She wanted to tell him no.

That she was married to Mr Todd now. That it was getting late. That her husband would be worrying. But something in the stranger's easy manner engaged her, and she felt it would rude to refuse someone she had kissed so passionately barely two weeks ago.

He took her basket immediately, and guided her with his arm down the path and into the warm environs of the studio.

It was lively.

Mrs Lovett had half-expected slit throats and meat pies to fall down around her, but what she saw instead were artists chatting and shouting and arguing everywhere.

Brightly dressed young men sat at their easels, drawing and painting furiously. Candle-lit chandeliers dangled from the ceiling. Rose-patterned wallpaper and cheerful rugs were thrown across the floors, velvet curtains and little tables were everywhere stuffed with flower vases and china and other still life objects.

The main attraction, however, was the woman standing on a platform at the back of the room. She was naked from the waist up, and her pale breasts glistened like shells on the beach. The woman didn't seem in the least bit embarrassed or worried, and instead looked calmly ahead. Even for a woman as liberal as Mrs Lovett, it came as a bit of a shock. The thought of stripping in front of Mr Todd was embarrassing enough – imagine in front of all these people!

Perhaps she wasn't far wrong in calling this stranger a fruit-cake. Did he really think she would agree to undress herself for every strange man she met on a train?

Apparently so. "Say you'll model for me," he said earnestly, taking her hand suddenly.

It probably didn't help that she was wearing red. "I can't," Nellie confessed. "I lied. I ain't a model."

He led her to a secluded part of the room. Unlike Mr Todd, his eyes never strayed from her face. "Did you like my kissing you that day?" he demanded, still grasping her hands.

Nellie didn't feel she could lie. She'd already lied about Lucy to Mr Todd. Maybe it would do her good to tell the truth sometimes. "Yes," she admitted, unable to look away.

It was as if two weeks had melted away completely, and they were standing in the carriage of the train again.

"I liked it," Nellie repeated.

A slow grin spread across the stranger's face. It was so infectious, she found herself letting out that wild circus laughter from the pit of her belly. Before Nellie could wonder at what she was doing there, the man had seized the bottom of her jaw, and pressed his mouth into the folds of her lips.

It was not as urgent as the first time they met. He moved his lips seductively against hers, as slow and careful as his hands that fell to her waist and moved against the small of her back.

It was better than Mr Todd's paltry kiss by the graveyard. The stranger had lust and experience to his advantage, and it was tempting for Nellie to go on kissing him until she forgot her own name and was only some artist's model being moulded by his hands – but she pulled short of going further.

With some effort, she broke his kiss, and turned her face to the window. It would be easy to succumb to this stranger, Nellie saw. But she did not love him, and no matter what she allowed other men to do with her body, Mr Todd would follow her around always inside her head. She couldn't betray all the years she had gone on loving him – not for a fleeting moment with this stranger.

But the stranger was persistent.

"Won't you tell me your name?" he murmured into her neck, trying to coax her back into his kiss.

Nellie laughed, though there really was nothing funny about it. She tried imagining Mr Todd doing the same thing, but couldn't. "Nellie," she said quietly, half-hoping he would forget it.

"Eli," he answered back, moving his kisses beneath the jaw of her neck.

"Eli," she said thickly, finally pulling free of his arms. "I love someone else."

And without another word, she picked up her basket and ran quickly out the door and up the garden path, all the way home.

With any luck, Mr Todd would be waiting for her.

*** * ***

**Sorry, the potato-sack whacking will be in the next chapter =D At any rate, expect to find a grumpy Sweeney!  
**


	23. Mrs Lovett's Misdemeanour

**A/N: HOLY SMOKES! Bet you all thought I disappeared of the face of the earth, right? No excuses this time, I just had to sort out my life. =)**

**~Mrs Lovett's Misdemeanour~**

When Mrs Lovett had been a girl of five years living in a squalor-filled household not less than six miles from the run-down general store that would one day be known as Mrs Lovett's Meat Pie Emporium, she learnt all she needed to know of life from her frequently abusive, inebriated parents.

When most of the dirty dishes and empty spirit bottles had been hurled and shattered against peeling walls and rotting floorboards, either father or mother would drag out the cowering Nellie by her ear or elbow and sit her in front of the bare fireplace.

"That's yer future child, so learn ter love it."

And either mother or father (Nellie couldn't remember which) would then proceed to rub her nose in the month-old hardened coals.

After that display, Nellie was quickly forgotten. She was able to watch in secret from the narrow hall as her father throttled her mother, and her mother fought back with all the violent words and tricks that a lifetime of hard living had made her master of.

"Leave off yer drunken filth!" Nellie's mother hurled their only kitchen appliance, a black kettle, at her father's head.

The argument ended in her father's skull split clean in two. His blood splattered against the peeling wall.

Her mother took off to the local pub and was found dead in a ditch the morning after.

No one knew if it had been murder or suicide, and no one, not even Nellie, much cared.

After her Aunt and Uncle had taken her in and raised her, Nellie had given no more thought to violence between men and women.

Her Aunt and Uncle never fought. And although Nellie witnessed her fair share of neighbourhood brawls, it never entered her head again to dwell on the reasons for her parents' fatal fight. She had married Albert at nineteen. Her husband had been far too lazy a man to think of rousing himself into any sort of passion – violent or otherwise – and the only other man Nellie had ever been in proper acquaintance with was Benjamin Barker.

In those few months of happiness Mr Barker had known with his Lucy, he'd been a quiet, pleasant man. Nellie and Albert never heard an angry word raised from the upstairs tenants, and Benjamin had only smiles and friendly words for his landlady.

The consequence of Mrs Lovett's relationship with her emotionally stunted husband, and her long years thereafter as a widow, meant she was completely unprepared when Sweeney Todd came along. Of course there was no question of her loving him. But his temper kept her up long hours through the night, and had her rushing to the lavatory at unexpected hours to bring up the contents of her breakfast or dinner. Mrs Lovett had stomach ulcers and insomnia for the first time in her forty years of hardy life.

The first time he threatened her with his razor often returned to Nellie in her sleep. Clovelly had not helped her to escape from her nightmares. She would wake unexpectedly with Sweeney's face looming before her, the point of his razor pressed against her lips or cheek or throat. It was as if her parents had returned to haunt her through the spirit of Sweeney Todd.

She came up with a plan almost immediately. It was the same plan that had carried her through the course of her childhood relatively unscathed.

She would ignore Mr Todd, or failing that, obey him. If she felt a point was worth pressing, she might plead or wheel or coax him gently, but _never_ was she to goad him. To do so would mean instant death. Mrs Lovett knew it as surely as she could call up the image of her mother hurling the black kettle toward her father's head in blind fury.

Yes, Mrs Lovett's cool practicality had seen her live for more than six months with a murdering psychopath who had forgotten any concept of human warmth or touch unless it was a near effigy of his dead wife and child. Sweeney Todd had let her live because she had not burdened him with her womanly emotions.

Until now.

"Jealousy is a very ugly colour, Mrs Stowe. I should not think your husband would find it flattering on you."

Mrs Sedgewick set the tea tray on the parlour table, brushing imaginary dust from her carnelian dress. She offered a seat to Mrs Lovett.

"I never said I wos jealous," Nellie said low and even toned, ignoring the offer. "I just want the truth."

"The truth?" The blonde woman raised her barely defined eyebrows, and began stirring two cubes of sugar each into the tea cups.

"You know wot," Nellie continued dangerously, darting a glance outside the window.

It was completely dark now.

Nellie had run straight home from the artist's cottage.

But she hadn't had the courage to face Sweeney. He would be waiting for her, demanding to know why she was so late.

Instead, she'd turned down Mrs Sedgewick's garden path and knocked on the door. She didn't know why.

She was not her parents. She could contain herself.

"I cannot read your thoughts Mrs Stowe, as much as I would like." Mrs Sedgewick was contemplating her with a bored expression. "I am afraid you will have to enlighten me –"

Sweeney would be wondering where she was. It was late, and if he happened to knock and find her here...

Nellie took a deep breath. "Is you sleepin' with my 'usband?"

The blonde woman slowly smirked.

At that point, Nellie felt confessing to having skinned and cooked over ninety-five men would have been an easier enterprise than what she had just done.

She was still clutching the picnic basket and umbrella. "I need to know."

Of all the reactions Eleanor Lovett had been expecting from this woman, complete honesty had not been one of them.

Nellie put the picnic basket down very calmly.

Mrs Sedgewick leant back into the high-backed chair and collapsed in a fit of laughter. She threw her head back at the ceiling, eyes glinting and hands smacking the velvet arms of the chair. Her blonde curls whipped forward, and when Mrs Sedgewick had finished, she contemplated the dishevelled Mrs Lovett with triumphant amusement.

"You poor, pathetic woman! I would not let that disturbed man touch me if he and I were the only two people left on earth. What is more, he does not even think of you. Unless you can think of a way to erase Mr Stowe's memory of his dead wife and child, you will be forever chasing ghosts. Ha ha ha ha! Poor, deluded, thing!"

Mrs Lovett did not answer her. None of what Mrs Sedgewick said came as a surprise. The woman was a grasping viper, that was clear. More fool poor Mr Sedgewick for having her as his wife.

"Did you hear me Mrs Lovett?" Mrs Sedgewick went on, setting tea cups busily around the table and turning her mouth up into a continuous smile. She moved the tea cup around the table three times until she was satisfied she had found the right position for it. "Your husband thinks more of his dead wife than he does of you."

"I don't think I'll take any o' your tea," Mrs Lovett said steadily, picking up her picnic basket and heading for the door. "Who knows where it's been?"

It was clear the blonde woman was deriving too much pleasure from Mrs Lovett's visit. "Aren't you going to ask me what Mr Stowe told me?"

"No."

Mrs Sedgewick got up from the chair.

The clock struck seven o' clock.

Suddenly Nellie dropped the picnic basket by the door. She went back into the parlour, picked up the tea tray, and carried it into the kitchen. A knowing smiled curled her lips upward.

"What are you doing?" Mrs Sedgewick stared at her as if she were a woman possessed.

"Where's your husband?" Nellie asked.

"At the gentleman's club," the blonde woman said defensively. "Why?"

"Well," Nellie continued, placing the untouched cups and saucers in the sink and beginning to wash them attentively, "I like ter know particulars."

Mrs Lovett's complete indifference was beginning to disturb Mrs Sedgewick. "What are you doing?" she repeated. "Don't you care at all what your husband has done?"

Nellie turned sharply from the sink and regarded the woman's crisp green gaze. There was too much calculating there to believe anything that viper said. "You still haven't told me what he's done," she said calmly, "which leads me to conclude he must be innocent."

"You go on wishing, Mrs Stowe," said the woman with a cruel smile, "and I won't have to tell you what your husband has been up to."

As Nellie scrubbed the dishes, Mrs Sedgewick played with the corner tassels of the kitchen table cloth. Her hair was carefully coiffeured in an intricate bun. Her whole outfit was carefully constructed.

We're both the same, Nellie realised bitterly, as she placed the final cup to dry on the wooden rack. Both pining for a man who has no designs on living, flesh women. Why should this woman bother me? She's lonely and pitiful, dressing up for a man who cuts throats for a living.

Or used to.

"I don't need to know wot he's up to anymore," Mrs Lovett said coolly, and returned the sunless smile.

She wasn't thinking of Mrs Sedgewick.

On the bench was a hessian sack of potatoes.

It was the sort of domestic item Mr Todd might threaten Toby with in a foul mood, had there been any sacks of potatoes on hand in their home.

Mrs Lovett wondered how much strength she'd need to lift it. Couldn't be too heavy.

She looked back at Mrs Sedgewick. Petite, thin. Not too much meat on her neck or her arms or her head. Quite easily done.

Mrs Sedgewick wasn't so stupid. "What are you looking at?" she snapped, seeing Nellie's eyes dart past her. "Who's there?"

"No one," Nellie smirked, imagining Mr Todd standing in front of her with a wicked smile.

_"Go on, Eleanor," _he taunted_, _taking a seductive step forward._"For once, don't be a victim. She deserves it."_

"My word she does," Nellie answered the imaginary Mr Todd.

The blonde woman stared at Mrs Lovett. "Who are you talking to?"

"None of your concern." Nellie moved toward the kitchen bench, pretending to swipe dirt off the edge. She kept her back to Mrs Sedgewick and continued to talk. "I just like to know my particulars, in instances such as these. When desperate measures are called for."

"My husband will return soon," Mrs Sedgewick said pathetically. "He won't stand for your intimidations, Mrs Stowe, and nor will I –"

"Lucky for you dear, you won't 'ave to!"

Mrs Lovett was the master of improvisation.

Not only had she chosen her weapon of choice in less than thirty seconds, she had found the right words to strike into Mrs Sedgewick's snake-heart.

The last words she would ever hear.

Turned out the sack of potatoes was just the right amount of heaviness for lifting and shattering brain mass with.

Nellie lifted the sack, and swung it rapidly so that it connected full force with Mrs Sedgewick's perfectly featured face.

The woman stumbled backward onto the tiled floor and split her head clean in two.

Nellie dumped the sack of potatoes by Mrs Sedgewick's shattered head. "Sweet dreams, love."

*** * ***

"I'm sorry Mr T but she asked for it, she surely did."

No, somehow Mrs Lovett didn't think that was going to cut it.

"She ran into the cupboard, an' then the sack o' potatoes fell on 'er!"

The baker shook her head. None of her excuses were very convincing.

She had to admit to herself, Nellie had a knack for erasing competition. First Lucy, now the late Mrs Sedgewick…

"I think I need a drink." Mrs Lovett sank into the foreign chair, and cast her gaze disinterestedly over the sea-blue cupboards.

Funny how now she had the sea right near her, Nellie didn't care for it anymore. She let her head stoop onto her shoulder, and ran her fingers through her grotty hair. The smell of Mrs Sedgewick's dried blood loosened from her fingernails and drifted up Mrs Lovett's nose.

Of all times, surely this was not one for sleep. Nellie closed her eyes briefly. Was there any point fighting it? Mr T was sure to find out sooner or later, and then he'd drag out her big secret and probably throttle her throat with some spare bit of rope she'd bought intending to make a nice summery hammock with.

So much for her dreams by the sea. Why not sleep now, and fall into soothing oblivion?

"MUM! Are you alright?"

"Wot!?" Nellie sat bolt upright, her elbow jerking into the side of the kitchen table. "How'd you get in 'ere?!"

The boy stood wide-eyed a little apart from her, his eyes darting down to the bloody pool on the floor, a little further to the blonde-tossed mess of Mrs Sedgewick's broken body.

Mrs Lovett regarded him intently. Did he think she? If so….Nellie wondered how long she might have until Toby ran screaming down the village road…

"Where is 'e?" The boy's face was almost white with fury. "I know he's up to this! Don't you dare cover for 'im this time Mum! E's gone too far!"

Foolish boy.

Nellie got up and pressed his head into her breast. The rustle of her skirts reminded her she was a woman with a purpose. She'd come this far from London, in a corset and dress no less. She was not to be outdone by a manic-depressive barber and a dead woman.

"Now love," she said soothingly, planting one or two chafed kisses against his temple. "You've received an unpleasant shock you 'ave. The most decent thing for you ter do is sit an' rest your bones quiet-like –"

She attempted to lead him into Mrs Sedgewick's parlour, but this time her motherly instincts were to no avail.

"No more lies Mum," Toby insisted, pushing her away. "Wos it him that did it?"

He let silence seep into the room as steadily as if it were the blonde woman's blood sinking into the kitchen tiles.

"Or," he breathed heavily, as if unable to conceive his mum were anything but his angel-guardian, "wos it you?"

Mrs Lovett seized his arm. "Toby. Stop it." She thought fast. "We've got to bury the body."

"Wot!? We need the cops, is wot!"

"Toby love, settle down."

Toby was wild. He tore free of her grasp. "I knew it!" His eyes blazed, darting from the bloody hessian sack to Mrs Sedgewick's split skull. "You wotch out mum or he'll be after you next! I'm gonna get that Mr Todd, before he harms us more!"

"No! Toby!"

She tore at the corner of his sleeve, but the boy was faster.

In barely seconds, he had bolted down the hall and out the door, sending Nellie's picnic basket flying across the floor.

In such a rage, who knew what the boy was capable of? Either he would finish Mr Todd, or Mr Todd would finish him.

Nellie stepped over the bloody floor, and tore outside down the garden path and stopped before the gate of her own house.

There he was, standing steely-eyed by the door frame.

Mr Todd.

For a few stroke-ridden moments, Nellie forgot about the boy entirely.

Instead, all she could think of was: how was she going to survive this one? How was Mr T ever going to forgive her?

He didn't move when she came hesitatingly down the garden path. He held the door open for her.

"What, Mrs Lovett, have you done?"

"Wot you mean Mr T?" Mrs Lovett kept her voice calm and even. She did not flinch, not even when faced with Sweeney's menacing gaze.

"You know." His face did not turn livid with rage.

That meant nothing. His calm exterior and fixtured grimace told Nellie he was merely contemplating how best to carve her up.

"What have you done to her?"

Nellie returned the gaze unflinchingly. "Where's Toby? Wot 'ave you done wif the poor lad?"

Sweeney Todd smiled with expressionless eyes. "That, Mrs Lovett, is a secret."

*** * * **

**I'll do my best to upload the next chapter over the next two days!  
**


	24. Juveniles

**A/N: Wheeeeeee!!! Thanks guys! Reviews make me happy ~ and type fast. =D**

**~Juveniles~**

"I'll ask you again, my pet," said Sweeney coolly, "what have you done?"

Just when it seemed hell had receded back into the far gloom of her London past – a new nightmare was descending.

A few seconds of satisfying potato-sack bashing had come to nothing. The sick, eddied feeling of menstrual blood seeping from her womb suddenly washed over Nellie – but no blood came. It was her conscience plaguing her, that was what.

No matter how often she had daydreamed of choking, stabbing or poisoning the already long-dead Lucy, Mrs Lovett had never allowed her private fantasies cloud her day-to-day routine. At times the boredom of scraping the skin off Mr Todd's victims had been so great the ex-baker had been highly tempted to march straight up to her partner's tonsorial parlour and inform of her Terrible Secret, but always, it had remained just that – a temptation.

Now that she stood in the doorway, the weight of what she had done began to sink in.

It wasn't just Mrs Sedgewick that she had mercilessly bludgeoned. Any other woman Nellie had happened to bash, Mr Todd might have turned a blind eye to. Bashing a blonde woman, now that was edging on dangerous ground. Bashing a blonde woman who unnaturally happened to possess the same swan-like demeanour and pale features as his precious angelic wife Lucy, was suicidal.

Mrs Lovett might as well go out in the garden this very instant and either hang herself or set herself alight – for that was exactly what Mr T would plan to do to her when he found out. Well, perhaps nothing so dramatic. Probably he'd just shove her against a wall and slit her throat quick as can be, and let her crumpled body slide down in a rag-doll mess beside the dining table. Real gentleman-like, he was, that Mr T. But wot if –

He was watching her.

They locked eyes. He knew her too well.

Those black, murky orbs emitted nothing, yet drank everything in. They absorbed all Mrs Lovett's twitching and upset nerves beneath her outer demeanour.

Mrs Lovett let out a strangled cry. "Mr T –"

He already knew. The boy must have spilled his guts.

It was what she had spent the past six months trying to avoid.

Her nightmare terrors spilling over into reality. That, and Mr Todd really didn't need to know he'd murdered his own wife. If he ever got wind of that, the little bit of Benjamin Barker that Nellie felt must still exist somewhere in Sweeney Todd's butchered exterior would surely die.

"Where's Toby?" Mrs Lovett repeated, taking a brave step towards her tormentor.

"Taking a nap, Mrs Lovett," he answered hollowly.

His voice no longer held any mocking. Sweeney spread his hands free so that the woman could see beyond the threshold.

"Oh lord." A sea of bile rose in Nellie's throat.

There was blood on the floor. That was an understatement. The floor _was_ blood.

"P'r'haps," she whispered, and then trailed into thought.

Sweeney Todd fled.

She heard the barber's footsteps descend down the garden path. The gate swung open and clanged shut. For once, Mr Todd's movements did not interest in her.

Instead, her gaze gravitated toward the arm sprawled across the hallway.

Nellie collected herself and pounded inside. She turned the corner, steeling herself for the picture of Toby's still slaughtered little body.

The floor was slippery, and Nellie skidded to a halt, clinging to the dining room chair to steady herself. She'd been close to tripping over the body.

"Lord in 'eaven, wot a lot o' blood," she breathed.

It was no more than an hour old, but the stench already began to rise up from the open mouth and the other now airless entries of nose and ears.

The eyes lay fixed and open, looking beyond Nellie toward some unknown point on the ceiling. He was not shocked or terrified – simply surprised.

The arm that extended into the hall was half-closed. Nellie leant over a little and saw further down the hall a fire poker that had been his last weapon before being slashed ear to ear by Sweeney Todd.

A black bowler hat also lay forlorn beside the poker.

Nellie returned to contemplate the body. She knelt by the face, covering her mouth with a handkerchief from her pocket.

Poor sod. Thank lord it wasn't Toby. Just a stranger instead. He'd been a handsome man too, Nellie saw. If it weren't for the awful violent slash across his neck, or the coat of blood that transformed his face into a red human sun, the man would have been quite pleasant to look at.

Too bad he was dead. "That Mr Todd," Nellie muttered. "Once a devil, always a devil."

She took her handkerchief, and dropped it over the man's staring eyes so that his face became a white shroud. "Rest in peace, love."

Then it occurred to her. She and Mr Todd were twins alike. Sick twins. She'd no idea how they'd managed it at the same time, but they'd both done a number on what was just two ordinary human beings – selfish, spineless – human through and through. And all in the space of what looked two be no more than two hours, for the blood on Mr Stranger Wot's-his-name's neck still oozed fresh and bright. They were both murdering crims – and if Lucy could see down from heaven she'd surely want no part of her husband's new life. There was no getting around it – Nellie was Sweeney Todd's female counterpart, and she could see no better match for him than herself, except –

"Except I'm not worthy o' 'im," Nellie talked miserably to the dead body, dropping herself down in a spare chair. "Sweeney doesn't lie. He's a lot o' things, mind. Alright so he mighta cut yer throat you poor dead dear, but he won't lie. He just don't say a lot. Better than me. I can't seem ter stop talkin' noon till night, an' still I can't bring meself ter tell him the thing wot's been eatin' me up from the inside out." She sighed briefly, clasping her chin. "Toby!" she sat up, remembering the boy.

Suddenly her eyes caught on the extended fingers pointing to the hall.

They say, well Nellie had heard it said, that the dead don't talk, but here seemed to be a pretty good indication that at the very least they are able to give directions.

"Toby!" Nellie shouted at the top of her lungs.

At first the baker heard nothing more. She wandered throughout the house, straining her ears, until at last she heard muffled cries coming from the bathroom.

Nothing was locked. Upon bursting in, she found the boy in the bath-tub with his hands and legs bound, his mouth gagged. Nellie tore off the gag, but left the bindings in place.

"Now you be a good boy, love. I'm off to find that rotten Mr Todd."

She locked the door soundly before leaving, just in case it got into Toby's head to somehow break free, or some nosy neighbour wandered into their house and found the bloody scene.

*** * ***

She came slowly to the door. It was the longest walk she had ever endured.

He was waiting for her inside Mrs Sedgewick's house.

"Mr Todd," she said in a breathless rush, though she was not really breathless, "please love let me speak afore – "

Sweeney did not touch her.

He allowed her to step inside unmolested, and only moved forward to lock the door soundly behind her. "We've only a short while before Mr Sedgewick returns, and the body is discovered," he said, looking down at her as if she were the filthiest kind of insect.

Where was the anger, Mrs Lovett wondered? Was he only torturing her now with a calm prelude before his usual stormy explosion?

"I have something to ask you, my dear," he said quietly, watching the street from a crack in between the curtained windows.

Funny, how now of all times he did not shout or break into some raging outburst. Unless he was worried they would rouse the interest of the neighbours? "Wot, dear?"

"Were your intentions pure?"

Nellie could have burst out laughing, were the question not so serious.

Everything in Sweeney's manner then struck her as very sad, very aged, as if he were an old man who has just watched the last of his family die before his eyes. "My intentions –" she broke off. "My intentions…an' I s'pose you cuttin' the throat of a man wot done you no 'arm, I s'pose that wos pure, wos it?"

"That's enough, Mrs Lovett!" He walked over to the kitchen that now held only splatters of blood on the floor and cupboards.

Mrs Sedgewick was gone. If not for the blood, it would be as if she had never existed.

"Where is she?" Nellie asked, following.

"Under the house," he answered shortly, handing her a pail filled with soap and a wet cloth.

"You mean to say you buried her?"

"Scrub," he commanded, stepping away from the messy blood puddle.

He watched as the baker got on her hands and knees and took to scrubbing furiously. Apart from the concentrated fury of her brow, and the stifled breathing of her chest, the woman betrayed no sign of distress or remorse. If it weren't for the terrible mess she was cleaning, Mrs Lovett might have appeared pretty, or sweet. In another lifetime, twenty years ago perhaps, he could recall his former landlady scrubbing the stairs on the landing that led to he and Lucy's upper quarters. Technically, it was not her duty to clean his half of the house, but with Lucy pregnant and he busy at the barbershop most days, it had been Nellie's pleasure to spend every Friday afternoon just on the hour he came home from work, scrubbing until the stairs shone. Admittedly, Benjamin hadn't cared for stairs, but it had been a thoughtful gesture, long-forgotten all these years until now.

"Where did you go?" Sweeney whispered, staring past the crow's nest, baggy-eyed baker with the permanent frown lines around her brow and the sides of her mouth. He could see, if her imagined hard enough, a younger Mrs Lovett in a pale yellow dress, breaking into laughter at the sight of a pregnant Lucy attempting to take the stairs. She did not have Lucy's humour. His wife was always given to gentle, reserved smiles, and rarely laughed in company, unless it was with him. Mrs Lovett, on the other hand, could be heard down the end of the street, shrieking, whooping or giving into general hysterics at the latest piece of gossip her customers told her. What a changed woman she was now.

Nellie heard him whispering. She thought he was talking to his dead wife. "Damn fool," she mouthed to herself, but did as she was told, scrubbing until her arm gave way.

When the mess was clean, she tossed the bloody water onto the plants in the conservatory. "There," she panted, wiping sweat from her brow. "Now we must make 'aste before that Mr Sedgewick gets back an' finds his wife missin'."

"The truth is, Mrs Lovett, you are a juvenile."

His partner raised both brows. She'd been called a lot of things her time, but a juvenile certainly wasn't one of them. "Pardon?"

"You murder a woman who did you no harm," he said, rounding on her suddenly, his brow furrowing dangerously. "We're not even married proper, and you my dear see to act the part of the jealous wife. You bludgeon the first woman that seeks me out, and for what purpose?"

"Love, 'ear me out –"

"Sweeney Todd murders with purpose, mark my words he does – but you! The Judge deserved every slice I served him, an' more –"

"Wot about all them other men you cut," Mrs Lovett hissed back.

"Crims, knaves, rakes, most of all filth. But Mrs Sedgewick, my pet, what harm did she do you?"

Mrs Lovett fell to silence. And considered. It was true. What harm _had_ she done? After all, Nellie had handled ten times the level of insults Mrs Sedgewick could dish out – back in London. A stupid blonde twig wouldn't have irked her then, unless of course she'd gone by the name of Lucy. Nellie had skinned dozens of men back in London. Why hadn't she wept for every dead man rotting on the floor of her bakehouse? 'Course she couldn't weep for strangers – a stranger meant nothing to her. Why then? Why did her skin feel clammy, as if it had never known the stroke of the afternoon sun? Why did she shiver, though the air was still and warm?

The truth swept over her then, as readily as if it had been Mrs Sedgewick herself, sitting up from the floor with the forgotten sack of potatoes ready to backhand Mrs Lovett in revenge.

Nellie jumped slightly, half-expecting the dead woman to come out from under the house and do exactly that. She stared at the now spotless kitchen floor for a full moment, listening to the buzz of the flies as they gathered on the window sill, draw by the smell of dried blood. The smell!

"He's going to smell it, Mr T!"

He grasped her shoulders, his teeth baring in a slow-developing grimace. "You did it, Mrs Lovett, not I!"

She couldn't argue against that one.

There was nothing, naught but the sound of the heavy night already descended, the buzzing flies, Sweeney's steady, half-inaudible breath, and her own heaving conscience spilling out into ragged little breaths.

Now it was clear. The child.

"She has a child," Nellie whispered.

Sweeney turned immediately. "What?"

"Mrs Sedgewick. She has a child."

"I heard you."

They got to their feet.

Sweeney regarded her anxiously. "Where?"

"Where else?" Nellie lifted her skirts and rushed up the staircase. She barely knew the house, but instinct led her up the second floor to the child's nursery.

Mr Todd clung close by her heels. "If the child heard you earlier, Mrs Lovett, then we must –"

"I know love." Nellie didn't let him finish. She could already feel her companion's burning gaze on her back, and the import was clear in his voice. After all, they had almost done the same to Toby barely a month ago.

The baker pushed open the white nursery door, her left hand wrenching the backs of her skirts in torment. She was just a child, a little girl. A spoilt little girl, but a child nonetheless –

"It's happenin' all ova again," Mrs Lovett wheezed, tip-toeing noiselessly to the child's canopy bed.

She was lost in her own world, Mr Todd momentarily forgotten. The world of her bakehouse nightmares, where Sweeney came down and found her in the midst of heaving his wife's dead body into the oven flames. Well, this time she had done the killing, instead of Sweeney – but in the end it didn't matter who killed whom. It was always Nellie who paid the crime – Nellie who was left bereft with her throat cut on the bakehouse floor. Sweeney swimming or dancing aimlessly across the dirty stones, coated in her blood.

Sweeney grasped the back of her hand, forcing her to drop her skirts. "What did you say?"

Their eyes met, and Mrs Lovett found herself trembling beneath his cool gaze. "Nothin' love, nothin'. Just more o' me foolish chatter."

"I should hope so," he muttered, but if he suspected more, he did not say so.

"There, under the canopy o' nettin'," murmured the baker, grasping his hand and jerking her head at the still sleeping form of the child. No frown creased the little girl's forehead, and it seemed as though she had been asleep for hours.

"Just as well, Mrs Lovett." He was still gripping her hand, and led her quickly away from the innocent scene.

It seemed to Nellie that he was afraid they might spoil it, or somehow infect the girl with their corruption, just by them standing there watching her sleep.

He shut the door gently, and put a warning finger to his lips.

How odd, Nellie thought, how a man who dispenses so easily with human beings, can handle doors as if they were the skin of his most cherished child or wife.

*** * ***

"Who wos 'e?" Mrs Lovett asked, when at last they had buried the strange gentleman in the backyard underneath the plethora of colourful flower pots.

The flower pots, of course, were Mrs Lovett's idea.

Now they were sitting on the back garden stairs, contemplating a night of hard-glinting stars.

A bottle of gin had fast disappeared between them, but somehow not even that was enough to dull the senses that fired through Sweeney's brain.

They'd only just arrived in Clovelly, and now it seemed they would have to leave.

"Mr Constable Lithgow," he answered, "come from London to inquire the whereabouts of two fugitives who go by the names of Mrs Lovett and Sweeney Todd."

"Well that wos clever, weren't it? Slashin' a copper, now we'll 'ave more come crawlin' lookin' for 'im!"

Sweeney Todd smiled at Nellie. "He recognised me the moment he stepped through the door, Mrs Lovett. I had no choice."

"So you said with Mr Fancy-Pants I-talian, an' look how that started - " She took another swig of the empty bottle, and tossed it aside.

"It didn't help you bludgeoning our neighbour," he said angrily, glaring at Mrs Lovett.

"It didn't help her insultin' me, an' callin' you the last man on earth she'd ever sleep with - "

"Get away!" Sweeney snarled, still smarting from the image of Mrs Sedgewick smiling innocently at him across the dinner party table. Who knows? In time, she might have come to like him. She had called him Ben. She'd called him...

"I won't get lost," Mrs Lovett hiccuped, whacking him over the back of the head. "You need me, you old lice-ridden fool!"

"I don't have lice," Sweeney growled, getting up to move. Instead, he fell down and landed on the bottom of the step.

It was probably fortunate that drink made Sweeney a dull man. In ordinary circumstances, he might have been more than tempted to find his razors and give Mrs Lovett an instructive slice across the cheek. Sweeney was indeed searching for his razors that very moment, but his arms flailed, and his pockets looked too far away to reach. He gave up.

"I'll be back in a tic love," called Mrs Lovett, who it turned out was a much more able drunk She went inside where the last of the fire still flared, and cast a motherly glance over the sleeping form of Toby. The boy lay insensible by the fire, cradling an empty bottle in his arms.

In a tic, Mrs Lovett returned, bounding down to the bottom step where Sweeney still nursed his wounds. "Well, least he's quiet for the time being."

"Til the gin gives out you mean," Sweeney half-chuckled quietly, feeling for the present that he didn't have to run anywhere, or kill anyone. That was, unless the boy decided to shoot his mouth off when he came to his senses. Then they might have to do something.

"Why did you come with me, Mr T?" Nellie asked suddenly. She let her hand drop casually by her side, so that it fell in line naturally with his on the wooden step.

"I should be asking you that question, my pet." On impulse, he took her hand despondently, and curled each finger inward into her palm.

"Guess that makes us two juveniles," Nellie said softly, looking up at him as he worked on her hand.

He did not look at her straight away. "How is it a woman's hands cause so much blood?" he wondered, pressing her hand beneath his before releasing it.

Nellie, boldened by their new-found closeness, edged a little closer to him on the step. "That's on account o' them angels, Mr T, blessin' us with cherub faces an' demon hearts since when we wos little girls," she laughed throatily, casting her head up to gauge his response.

Neither of them had ever had much occasion to smile, and it was the first time Sweeney realised he had noticed her teeth. They were not white or even like Lucy's, but the stains and broken colour somehow fascinated him, as had the colour of blood as it gushed from the throats of his shaven victims. "Don't, Mrs Lovett," he interrupted.

He could not forget so suddenly the horror she had brought to him. When he had walked in that house and discovered the scene, it was as if he had seen Lucy's very body on that floor. Perhaps he was being overly cruel – after all, when he searched himself, was he being sad for the sake of woman who he knew had not cared for him? Hadn't Mrs Lovett said, in so many words, that Mrs Sedgewick underneath it all couldn't stand the sight of him? Was he not also to blame, for seeking her out only for the sole unescapable reason that she reminded him, in face, not spirit, of his wife Lucy? Was it wrong of him to blame Mrs Lovett entirely? Would he be truly angry, or care at all, if the late Mrs Sedgewick had not resembled his wife?

Sweeney shifted his position on the step so that their eyes unavoidably met. Even drunk, he was uncannily perceptive.

He was not shy either. He was in the mood to interrogate. "Any other secrets you wish to tell me Mrs Lovett?"

Her laughter died away, and her eyes landed on the blue sea-sky far down the hilly village road, as if catching sight of something so awful and ugly that it marred the beauty of that night horizon.

The silence stretched before them. Their hands lay just apart, but they did not touch.

How long she had waited for this moment! Nellie rehearsed it almost every night before she fell asleep. "No, my love. I wouldn't hide secrets from you. Never."

*** * ***

**It took me all day to write this - and I'm still not happy with it. Let me know in reviews how you want the story to progress...  
**


	25. The Lock of Hair

**A/N:** **Well, at last it seems we are getting somewhere! =D**

**~The Lock of Hair~**

There were no lights in the house – not even a candle.

Only the moon shone its paltry beams through the attic window.

The barber paced, quick, measured steps. Then he would stop. Only to begin again.

By the window, the neighbours' house shone as if it held a summer's day inside its walls. The crying went on and on – and for once it wasn't Mrs Lovett.

Mr Sedgewick must have discovered his wife's body. A little trickle of sweat sprinkled his pale brow; not from fear, but from the anger that pulsed through every muscle.

He pulled the curtains – it would draw only more suspicion if it looked as if he had witnessed the woman's murder.

It also pleased him to know that someone else was suffering more horribly than he – for the time being.

Yes, Sweeney Todd was no longer drunk.

It was past midnight, and he was more awake than ever. He could hear dishes clattering downstairs, and cheerful humming. Mrs Lovett. Sweeney frowned. The simpering fool. No – that was too generous for what that woman was. She had known what Mrs Sedgewick had meant to him – she had known, how could she not? Those vulture eyes of hers picked at every word or look he gave her – or didn't give. He was not allowed to have one minute of the day that was his own.

He shuddered at what he had done in his drunken state – held her hand, no less! And the other time, before their wedding, when he had kissed her in the inn. As if she were not a woman, but an extension of his own discarded soul, for how could a man as broken as he feel anything again? And how could she – how dare she, coax him into all of this! The nonsense!

Sweeney began with Mrs Lovett's coverlet on her bed.

He ripped it off, and shred it in pieces with his razors. Next, he tore the stuffing out of the mattress. The dresses tucked neatly in the chest. Sweeney yanked the lid, but it was locked. He attacked it multiple times, eventually settling for slashing marks into the wood.

Mrs Sedgewick…Lucy….both were gone. Mrs Lovett was no better than the Judge. Stealing what was not hers, and destroying it behind his back. He had no chance for memories or farewells. And what frightened him most, he no longer knew his own wife's face. How she looked. Even Mrs Sedgewick was merely a portrait of blonde curls, swan neck and pale brow. If he sat down now and attempted to draw either of their likeness, he could not have done it. It pained him to know that the person who irritated him most in the world (after Judge Turpin, Beadle Bamford, Anthony, Signor Pirelli and the boy) was the one he knew most about – more than Lucy, more than his own girl Johanna. Mrs Lovett was by law, and under the eyes of God, his only wife now – and it was her face he could call up the most accurately in his head – not out of deeply felt affection, of course, but from monstrous repetition.

There she would be everyday with her cheery, morning face to bring him his breakfast, as regular as the daily obituaries. He had grown practiced at avoiding the messy auburn curls, the half-quizzical, half-yearning face, with its lady-bug eyes and quirky lips, the pale melancholy cheek that drooped and lent and bent every which ways Sweeney went. The sheer noisome force of Mrs Lovett's personality meant that he was _forced _to remember her – what hope did his sweetly spoken Lucy, with her embroidered caps and cotton bonnets have against such a coarse, boisterous woman?

None, Sweeney Todd realised miserably, slicing one final cut into the pine wood. It splintered pleasantly beneath his vicious hand, and the barber felt a little pleased.

It wasn't the same as watching the blood gush out of his victim's necks, but it was the next best thing.

"Mr T, wot's this racket –" The baker burst in breathlessly.

Until Mrs Lovett decided to show up.

"Wot 'ave you done to me trunk?" She pushed past him, and ran her hands across the splintered cuts. At that moment, with her skirts swamping the floor, and her pale neck exposed, Sweeney felt he could have taken it in his hand, and sliced across it with his blade. She would never be able to turn, to beg, to shriek, to see her own death reflected in his eyes.

"Mr T?" She turned, eyes wide, mouth open. She could read what he was thinking, even in the dark.

A slither of moonlight broke through the curtain gap; with it she saw the shaking hand, the upheld razor, the dead eyes that somehow still managed to blaze.

He's going to kill me…he would kill me if I stay. There's no reasonin' with 'im now…

The baker scrambled to her feet, and ran for the stairs.

She did not hear her own feet bounding down the stairs, nor the barber's coming after her. Toby lay senseless in the corner. She'd left him alone with the gin.

The house was dead now in the dark, save for the water dripping from the kitchen roof. Nellie saw the blue china, the upside down book on the table with her still warm tea, the crackling fire place, the still-life painting of roses on the wall by the clock, the hands had stopped working…no time to turn them neither. By the time I get down 'ere an' reach for the door, I'll be dead. Mr T will see to it. An' all this, me cottage of seaside dreams, all o' it will be here still. None o' it will miss me, when me body's splattered against the floor...

It almost came true.

Sweeney had caught up with her by the entrance. With one easy tug he had her arm in his and sent her spinning against the floor. Her head collided with the maroon chair. A line of blood trickled down the back of her neck and ran across her chest. There were no black frills or glitter or lace. She wore only the white cotton corset and skirts. Something Lucy would have –

"Did Mrs Sedgewick fight back, my pet? Or did you watch her life bleed away on the floor?"

"Did Constable Lithgow?" Mrs Lovett answered bravely, her unflinching gaze upon him. She was tired of this game. "Mr T," she said, getting slowly to her feet while holding the back of the chair to steady her, "It wos an' accident. I didn't mean ter 'arm her." All the while, she thought: whatever lie he needs to hear. Whatever lie will keep me safe.

"Words!" barked Sweeney. "The world speaks nothing but half-baked lies! Not truths!" He took her arm before she could protest, and sliced deeply down the centre, barely missing the vein. "There, Mrs Lovett. Pain is the only truth. Do you feel it?" He wanted her to scream at him, to tell him she hated him. What was wrong with the woman?

She closed her eyes and winced, and did nothing as he held the blade against her throat.

"Yes. More than you know, love," Nellie replied, opening her eyes to gaze down on that plain silver blade. She would not say it – even now. She would go to her death loving him.

"What have you suffered? Your husband died a fat old man," he snarled, watching the pulse of the green vein rise within her neck, as if it were a child struggling to free itself from its womb. This time she was laughing at him, and the colour of her eyes had dilated so that the blackness itself became a kind of light.

"Mr T, you ain't the only one who knows misery. You 'ad the chance ter hold the one you love most in yer arms. You got to tell 'er you loved 'er. While my 'usband wos never more than a stranger ter me, both in me bed an' in me heart."

He was beyond anger, and she was beyond fright. He did not desire her, but it was the very odd way she looked at him then, as if she had never seen another person before until that very moment, that made Sweeney lower the blade from her throat. It was more than discomfort he felt, it was –

And then she smiled. For all her sadness, the smile overcame the drawn cheeks, the awful pallor and sunken eyes. She was so happy – and for what? His fury turned to frown, and Sweeney stepped away. He had not been so close to a woman since he had Lucy stolen from him that day in the flower shop.

It angered him now, that it was Mrs Lovett who stood before him, and not his true love. It was his fault for agreeing to marry her. He was much too cowardly to take his own life. Lucy would see him, and know the monster he had become. Or there would be no Lucy at all, and he would live through eternity with only the memory of a smile, a bonnet, and yellow curls –

"Mr T –"

She was attempting to comfort him. The blood coated her arm, and still she came forward, all concern.

"Stay away – " He tripped over the chair. As surely as if he had been one of his own victims tumbling down the trapdoor to his doom, Sweeney fell winded on the floor, only to have the chair fall on top of him. Now that he lay trapped there, the baker came and knelt beside him on the floor. She wrapped her bleeding arm in the folds of her white skirt. He watched the blood devour the white, turning it a glistening shade of greedy red.

"Mr T, we need to 'ave a chat! Mrs Sedgewick never loved you – "

"So you saw fit to bludgeon her into the ground?"

The baker sighed, tossing aside the forlorn razor. She chewed her lip, staring long into the colourless walls. He wondered if she regretted coming here too.

"Why d'you give me hope?" he heard her mutter. "You 'eld my hand, jus' before."

"I was drunk," Sweeney said quietly, turning his head into the floor where he imagined only Lucy, or some merciful angel, might hear him. "Help me."

Mrs Lovett thought he was talking to her.

She bent her knees, and heaved the arm chair upright off the barber. As she did so, a golden object tumbled out of her corset. It rolled toward the barber's lap. He picked it up carefully, running his hands over the beautifully fashioned pocket watch. It snapped open easily; inside was a brown lock of hair enclosed behind glass. The other half of the locket had the letters "A. L," inscribed.

"You stole it," he said, unable to believe the barber could afford something so expensive.

"It's an 'eirloom, give it back," she said urgently.

Sweeney held it beyond her grasp, fascinated by the way it shone in the firelight, as if it were his beloved wife's golden hair, come to life…

"It was me poor Albert's," she explained, as they both sat there looking at it, he in envy, she in wretchedness. "Well, technically it's mine. He 'ad it made for me on 'is death-bed, you know, one of them memento moris. That's his own 'air," she said fondly, smiling mournfully at the vibrant lock.

Sweeney looked at her sharply. "You never loved him."

"True," Nellie considered, as the man got up with the watch still in his hand, "but it don't mean I don't feel sad for 'is passin'. We'd been married a long time, Mr T. Almost all me adult life. Shouldn't wonder then we 'ave a little 'istoy between us. Wait!"

She hadn't paid attention, and now the barber was over by the fire, flipping the clasp open and closed before the stirring flames.

"Don't!" she said, tearing to her feet.

There was nothing malicious in his face. He dangled it as if it were a scrap, a rag, a piece of rotten meat, for that was all it meant to him. He still wore the same white undershirt and grey vest, and it pained her to watch him standing before the fire, brow-creased and mouth in a scowl, as if nothing human could warm the deadened coals of Sweeney's heart…

"I have nothing to remember her by," he said, stone-faced. "Not even a lock of her hair. Why should you?"

And with that, he picked the lock of hair from the inside of the watch, and consigned it to the flames.

He watched her slide to the ground before the fireplace, her eyes shut in a prayer of grief.

"It's gone, Mrs Lovett," he said roughly, tossing the gold watch back into her lap, " no prayers will bring it back."

"Benjamin Barker," she whispered fiercely, pressing her hands against her lips.

The barber turned from the gorging fireplace. The flames cast unhealthy shadows across her face, and it was as if she shed blood, instead of tears.

"It was his hair, not Albert's, you bleedin' fool!"

*** * ***

=O


	26. The Confession

**A/N: Sweeney has chronic memory loss. Mrs Lovett finally gets something off her chest. And yes, in my version of things, Mrs Lovett was always a horrendous liar (but we love her for it =D). As always, thanks to my much-loved readers/reviewers: xxlindzzz, booksroc, Hello-again931, Emi1yOreo, F8WUZL8, AngelofDarkness1605, IheartJohnnyD, linalove, the emo kid, Pouka Lovett, NightsWeCantRemember,LavenderShadow, Make-War-Not-Love, Marla Singer -RIP Justin, Emily Carter, Evanescent Wishes, J Mariie. Sorry if I've left anyone out I'm just too lazy to look beyond the last three chaps.  
**

**~The Confession~**

"Say it again," he demanded, eyes flickering back and forth to the fire, and then to her.

She was stalwart. "You heard me."

"I don't believe it."

Both their eyes drifted to the locket sitting in Mrs Lovett's lap. It was so beautifully crafted, Sweeney didn't think it deserved to be owned by a poor widowed baker. Neither of them deserved it – murderers, that is.

Gradually, she raised her eyes to his level, her calves still digging into the floor. She didn't have the nerve to shift her position.

"It's true, Mr T. I kept it all these years."

There had been times when she'd allowed herself to imagine the scene, usually when she was in her bed on the verge of sleep. Other times it had been a welcome distraction from chopping up bodies. Nellie had dreamt of the day when she'd pluck up the courage to wear Albert's locket. She'd play with it while Mr Todd was on his lunch break, with any luck he'd ask her about it. She'd show him the lock of hair, and say it didn't belong to her husband, but her true love instead. Out of curiosity, or boredom perhaps (since when did Mr T care what the baker's heart contained?) _perhaps _he'd ask her. And, with a generous smile, she'd set the breakfast down, and answer: "you is, love."

Of course, she'd him give time and space to think about it, and after a day or two he'd come knocking on her bedroom door in the middle of the night, very grave, and tell her he'd made a mistake all those years loving Lucy instead of her. In fact all he'd ever needed was Nellie's confession of love to realise the error of his ways. "Come to bed, my pet," he'd say lovingly, and Nellie would follow him blindly into the darkness…

"And what, Mrs Lovett, is the point of that?" said the barber with steely eyes that gave off nothing but the same brittle ash of the fireplace coals.

She knew it was a bad idea the moment she'd voiced it. But she would have done it anyway. Mrs Lovett wasn't a daft woman. If she'd been truly daft, daft in the Mrs Mooney way, she'd never have survived her day-to-day scraps with Mr Todd. "Why do you think, Mr T, a widowed woman past her prime would keep another man's lock of hair in a locket that was a gift from her husband? Hmmm?"

Her eyes, Sweeney thought, for a woman who'd helped to slaughter so many of London's youth, were remarkably composed. The tears had stopped, the heaving chest had calmed considerably. Now she was waiting him out, gauging his reaction. He was half torn between wanting to throttle her for her impudence, and walking out the door. No woman worth her salt, especially not Lucy, would have dared say something so suggestive. All that came out the baker's mouth was gossip, or plotting, or spite.

"I don't know," he replied honestly. He knew the woman had some sort of infatuation with him. She'd had the nerve to kiss him more than once, and he knew from the looks she'd delivered him in the wedding chapel that there'd been more on her mind than a simple business transaction and exchanging of rings. He'd never intended to kiss her, no more than he'd planned to make her any part of his life at all. Except in the background – bringing his breakfast, the tea, the occasional paper. _That_ he could stand.

It was only now, when he was no longer distracted by thoughts of the Judge and the Beadle, and less and less, the memory of his wife and daughter – now it only became too obvious that Mrs Lovett desired more than his mere company. But was she mad enough to carry around Benjamin Barker's lock of hair in her pocket?

"Where did you get it?" he asked. He was beginning to lose his patience. "Did you steal it?"

Nellie shot him a look. Of course she didn't steal it. Did he think that wos all I wos good for, poppin' pies an' hackin' arms an' stirrin' tea? Does 'e think I might 'ave me own dark thoughts, me own passions wot run as deep as his? The baker's head drooped on her dress, and the wild curls turned copper and flame in the firelight. She was lost in the world of her own imprisonment, and it was doubtful Sweeney was the sort of gaoler kind enough to set her free.

"I asked you for it. Don't tell me you're that barkin' mad you carn't – "

"The word 'Barker" no longer exists, Mrs Lovett," he warned.

"But – " she didn't try and argue that "barking" was hardly the same word as "barker." Then he might truly lose his marbles. "You don't remember."

"Would I ask you if I did?" he said bitterly.

"It wos the day you proposed to Luc – _your wife_. You wos still rentin' out your shop above me meat pie emporium them days, an' just as you was goin' out the door an' down stairs to celebrate I asked if I could 'ave a quick word in private. He – you – wos such a gen'lemun them days, no wonder 'alf the girls in me street wos in love wif you. Not surprisin' Lucy fell 'ead over 'eels for you, the way she did –"

"Does this story have a point, Mrs Lovett?"

"Yes –"

"Then get on with it." His eyes never left the golden locket.

Probably all wot reminds 'im of Lucy's bleedin' angel-gold hair. Nellie decided to look at his feet. Mr T's sensible, dirt-smeared work boots. There were older stains too, faded into the ends and laces, most likely blood. "Anyway, dear," she went on, "I took your hand and gave me blessin' for you both both, an' asked if you'd grant me a favour. Told you my lovestruck cousin Berenice would die for devastation when she found out you was to be married, an' would you be a kind soul an' give her a lock of your hair to remember you by."

"I still don't remember," said the barber with a frown.

"You did. Said you were glad to be of service, an' if ever me or Albert Lovett ever needed anythin' we wos just to come up an' ask you. 'ow could a happy love-sick fool such as you were back then notice my misery?"

Slowly the truth began to dawn on Sweeney Todd. He realised she was staring at his boots rather fixedly, and her breathing had grown shallow. "All that time…"

"Yes."The sound of his voice inspired something in her, a nobility, or boldness, for she lifted her eyes and managed a smile of painful acknowledgement. "I loved you even then. All them days, Mr T."

He started. All those years he had been on Devil's Island, and she had kept him in her heart. "You barely said a word. We never talked."

"Don't I know it," said the baker, who was now looking up at him with such intensity of expression, Sweeney thought it only proper to take a step away.

He now saw the fussing in a new light. The attempts to have him sit by her, eat by her. All of it contrived. She had been casting a web around him, these past months, trying to make him forget his Lucy…"It's not possible," Sweeney decided. "You can't love someone you don't know, Mrs Lovett. And," he repeated more forcefully, hoping this would put an end to the matter and they could both go back to being ignorant as well as miserable, "we _never _talked."

"We did so," the barber said with a new flush of red staining her cheeks, "you asked me how I was, the time o' day, even the weather. Astoundin' how chatty an' polite you wos then."

"That was a long time ago." He didn't even know – "I don't know your Christian name,_ Mrs Lovett_." He emphasised her married name, as if this proved how emotionally estranged they were.

"You never asked. It's Eleanor," she said breathily, regarding him the way a child looks up at the sky for the first time and wonders if there's a God. Without warning, she got to her knees, took his limp hand in hers, and buried her face against it.

He could feel the edge of her lips rest tentatively against the tip of his finger, but there was nothing carnal in her action. Purely torment. A life-time of stored torment that had no outlet – except to lash out against the world. How he knew it well. He was so tired. His body ached. But his _mind_ was exhausted. There wasn't a time, he couldn't _remember_ a time he'd lain on the grass and looked up at the clouds with no thoughts in his head but the breeze and infinite blue. He was so tired he couldn't bring himself to move. It wasn't lust, and it certainly wasn't love that tied him here. There was an urge to take his other hand, and place it over the top of her head. This the same woman he'd wanted to murder less than a moment ago.

She was sniffing his hand now.

Privately, he wondered if there wasn't something of the animal in Mrs Lovett. There was certainly no angel in her. After all, he was the devil's helper on earth. And didn't her shop lead down into the mouth of hell? Perhaps they'd been running pointlessly. There was no escaping hell, if you truly belonged there.

"Where do we belong, my pet?" he pondered, placing his hand absently atop her mop of curls.

At this encouragement, he felt her skin move against his still limp hand. The buds of her lips found the centre of his palm. And lingered there.

It was the firelight crackling against his back, or the unfamiliar feminine caress on his skin – whichever, _whatever_ it was, the spell was bewitching him.

Had another second passed, he might have closed his eyes, and imagined he was still back in his barber shop, thinking it was Lucy's lips that cupped his hand…

"Mrs Stowe! Mr Stowe?"

Someone was knocking on the door.

Thankfully, that second move did _not _come to pass, and Sweeney's will power would not be tested.

His hand withdrew, as if a wilted flower, shrinking before the sun, and he left the woman kneeling by the fire.

To think what he _might_ have let pass between them…the barber shuddered, and uttered a silent prayer up to his wife in heaven…

"What?" The door was yanked almost clean from its hinges.

Mr Sedgewick stood there shrunken and bled of all colour, as surely as if he had been one of Sweeney Todd's deceased customers.

"My wife…she…" the man could barely get out the words.

Sweeney glanced back at Mrs Lovett. She was still kneeling senseless by the fire. But he knew she heard every word. He _hoped_ she did.

"She's gone," Mr Sedgewick said eventually.

The barber nodded. In situations such as these, it was best to remain silent, and let the other person interpret silence for attentiveness.

"I've searched everywhere. She would never leave me," the man pressed.

Don't be so sure. The happier you are, the more certain you can be that it _will _not last. But of course Sweeney said, "could it be, sir, that she is visiting a friend, and she has left you a letter that you have simply _misplaced?"_

The husband shook his head. "She keeps nothing from me. She would have informed me in person. I came to _you_ Mr Stowe, for I am at my wits' end. I fear the worst. Will you help me find her?"

Sweeney nodded in grave assent. He did not have to put on a pretence of seriousness. And anything was better than being house-bound with Mrs Lovett.

He swiped his jacket from the hanger in the hall, and took off into the night after his distraught neighbour. Mr Sedgewick was not the only widower.

*** * ***


	27. The Second Epiphany

**A/N: Sweeney starts to realise he may not hate Mrs Lovett *so very much* after all…**

**Random review replies: (Since you all know I'm too lazy to actually go to the review reply button...)**

**Jalice-4-ever: Yes, I somehow think if Sweeney was wandering around modern-day London and saw you on the street he'd want to add you to his blonde collection =O **

**F8WUZL8: Thanks for inspiring this chap - you always manage to give me the right idea without spelling it out =D**

**lindzxhatter: Thanks for the dance around your room =) - I'm glad to know you're addicted! **

**Emi1yOreo: No, don't die on me! Lol you waited so long for some sweenett I felt bad!**

**Hello-again931: Yes, we ARE getting somewhere (about ten chapters after I promised X_X) and hopefully this chap will convince you even more...**

**linalove: I'm glad you like the hand kissing moment =DD**

**booksroc: I hope you like this chap!**

**AngelofDarkness1605: =DDD**

**Evanescent Wishes: No, Sweeney is not a very happy chappy, is he? O_O**

**~The Second Epiphany~**

No on else ventured out into the darkness but the two men. It was not just the darkness of night they were walking into. Grief was the reigning Queen in these parts, it seemed. Sweeney had never tried to cast off Lucy from his mind, and now that he no longer wanted to think of her, she returned to him, stronger than ever, as if she were guiding them down the hill and towards the sea-cliff. They had knocked on every door, yet no one knew anything about a missing Mrs Sedgewick.

Grief gripped Sedgewick equally. He feared the worst, and rightly, for his wife was not floating freely into an ocean grave, but buried right under his house.

"Do you think…she might have…"

Sweeney did a strangely charitable thing, and sat his neighbour on the pavement outside Clovelly inn.

"Sit down." The barber met the man's tortured gaze. "Killed herself, you mean? She has a husband, a child. Why would she wish to erase all that?"

_Indeed, Lucy._ _Why did you not wait? Couldn't you have waited a little longer? A few months scarcely passed before the poison bottle was on your lips._

It angered him, more deeply than he could even admit to himself. Of course the Judge was to blame. But did Lucy not also have a small part to play in the tragedy – in condemning them both? Did she ever think of his torment? That he would dream of her and her only all those years on the island, baking in the sun, toiling in the dust, dreaming nightly under a starless prison roof. That in fifteen years he would see not a woman to compare with her. That he could barely recall those happy nights – snatches of smiles and laughter since his daily living under the shadow of the Judge. Did she think so little of her husband, that she thought she had the right to destroy the soul he had once so briefly possessed in their meetings at night in the darkness of their bed?

He could not blame woman's frailty either. Mrs Lovett had endured a loveless marriage, had waited fifteen years in the fruitless hope that Benjamin Barker might return. She had even kept his – _Benjamin's_ lock of hair, as if owning part of his old self might somehow conjure him back to life. Which, in a way, it had. The lock of hair made him see more clearly now.

The barber looked back at the dimly glowing cottage. He must not think of her now.

No one who claimed to care for him would do what the baker had just done to Mrs Sedgewick. Didn't she see it was the same as if Lucy had been murdered twice, first by the Judge, and twice by the one he was closer to than any other human being, alive or dead? Even Lucy had not known him as intimately as Mrs Lovett. His wofe had cooked, cleaned, washed his clothes, given him a child, lain with him in their bed and breathed his breath as if it were her own…but she had not known what he had become afterward…and had she lived, surely would not have approved.

Mrs Lovett, on the other hand...had known him both before and after the Judge snatched his happiness, and it did not seem to bother her either way what man he had become. Sweeney didn't know whether this made her wicked, or virtuous. If it made her virtuous, this left the barber in a very confused moral position. All these past months he had compared Lucy the Angel with Mrs Lovett the fallen woman, who flaunted her body to make up for the appalling taste of her pies. If Mrs Lovett was virtuous for loving him unconditionally, then it could only mean that his Lucy was unworthy, because she had only been capable of loving him for his innocence.

Yet that did not make sense either.

He had known from a very young age that the first person you met and fell in love with was your one true soul mate (provided they fell in love with you back). He knew this by watching his parents and their happy marriage. But how could that possibly be true now – now that Lucy was watching him from heaven and knew what sort of monster he had become? Wouldn't that mean she was no longer his soul mate after all? And that he was no longer hers – nor anybody's?

He certainly wasn't Mrs Lovett's – he did not love her. Every time he looked at her, he would see Mrs Sedgewick's sprawled body lying blood stained and smashed on the kitchen floor. But, he remembered, Mrs Lovett had never loved her husband, and he was the only man she had (supposedly) ever been intimate with. She had loved Benjamin all along instead. Did that not make her an adulterer – she had lain with Albert Lovett while imagining herself with him?

None of this business made any sense – not anymore. Sweeney's head hurt, the pavement was cold and hard on his backside, and he could find no clear answers.

In the end, he decided there were no such things as soul mates – especially not for dead men.

"No," Sweeney repeated to the comfort of the other man, "I do not believe she killed herself."

"Then what?" Sedgewick got to his feet, and grasped his temples. "I am out of my mind, Mr Stowe! We have knocked on all the doors in Clovelly, and not a soul has seen her. What else am I to conclude?"

Sweeney sincerely hoped the man was not as daft as he acted. "It's possible…she met with foul play."

He regarded the man carefully. If Mr Sedgewick at all suspected he or Mrs Lovett had played a part in her murder...they might be forced to do away with him as well.

"You mean she has been _kidnapped?_ I should not have left her to play cards."

Indeed, Sweeney thought, but as he knew more than any man, regrets never got anyone anywhere. Unless they sought out blood baths and endless nights spent dreaming of another man's blood drenching his skin and hair; that the great Turpin's innards were strung up on the wall of his old barber shop as the final trophy for his long-nursed agony. "I fear worse, sir. Your wife may have been murdered."

"Impossible! Clovelly is the safest place in all of England, I wager it."

"No doubt sir," said Sweeney doubtfully, "but as they say, where there is smoke there is fire. Has your wife any enemies?"

"None. She is loved by all. She has the sweetest temperament –except when she does not win her own way." Mr Sedgewick began to sob into his jacket.

Sweeney had seen many men cry back in the colony – he himself. But the man was crying as if she were already dead.

"We must go to the police," Sedgewick said eventually.

"Not so soon, sir. _Think_ on the matter properly. Let us suppose, for a moment, that she is staying at a friend's, and for reasons yet unknown, has chosen _not_ to inform you of her plans. Wouldn't you look foolish in the morning if after all that your wife turned up, alive and well on your doorstop?"

"And if she does not? If something is truly the matter?"

"Then, in light of other evidence, we will at once away to the police. Are you satisfied now, sir?"

Of course Sedgewick was not satisfied. But what else could he do, save looking very foolish, but to nod his head and agree to all that Mr Stowe said?

"And now if you'll excuse me, I must return to Mrs Stowe," lied Sweeney.

He deliberately turned to walk the other way. He did not want to go home to that woman. Not now. Not yet.

"Mr Stowe – do we not live in the same direction?"

"_Ah_. Of course." Sweeney took measured steps all the way back up the hill.

"Is something wrong, Mr Stowe? Forgive me my candour, but I could not help noticing you seem a little reluctant to return. Is all well…at home?"

"My wife and I have no troubles," the barber answered with a slight glare. He sighed, and realised it hardly mattered if he opened his heart to a person who was more than likely going to end up dead before the week was out. "We do not see eye to eye on most things. Her personality... _clashes _with mine."

"Oh. I think I see a little of what you mean. Mrs Sedgewick…often disagrees with my opinions. There are times, would you believe it, when I wish her dead. At the week's end, however, I try to imagine my life without her, how I would fill my days and nights…if she were gone. And I cannot. That is how I know we are truly well matched. I hope I have helped you, Mr Stowe."

"Undoubtedly. Goodnight," mumbled Sweeney, taking off the minute he arrived at his gate.

The man looked so completely miserable, as if he would hardly have noticed if the barber had taken his razors and slit his throat, that Sweeney could not look at him a moment more. He had no intention of straightening things out with Mrs Lovett. It was only – he stopped at the door.

There, a note was folded and tucked against the iron door knocker. He knew it was from her. It surprised him a little that she could write.

The letter was just like Mrs Lovett, Sweenet thought ironically – short and concise:

_Mr T,_

_It's clear you can't stand the sight o' me. An' though I'm very sorry for wot I done to that woman, it can't be undone, can it? You'll just haf to live wif it, as do I. You know –_

(Here she'd scribbled out several lines with blotted ink)

_ – how besotted I am – wot I feel. I think I've made it plain enuf. I'm done degradin' meself. You an' I (goodness knows I've tried time enuf) can't seem to reconcile our differences. You'll only hurt me, an' I'll only distress you more, if I stay. I care enuf to leave you be._

_Nellie._

Sweeney Todd scrunched up the note and scanned the empty street, wondering what to do.

*** * ***


	28. Eleanor

**A/N: I hope you all had a lovely xmas! Late again, I know. But you know I love Sweeney and Lovett too much to ever abandon this fic. =D**

**~Eleanor~**

Eleanor.

It was the name of queens, ladies, whores.

A thousand Eleanor's were living in the same age as the barber, breathing the same air, working, talking, eating, sleeping…

He did not allow his mind to wander that path. All he knew with any certainty was that there was only one Eleanor Lovett, and he had squandered that chance. Never would he discover all the thoughts she had kept locked away in her head. All those days he had turned to see her watching him in that particularly strange, longing way of hers.

And she would never know his. She would go to her death thinking he had spurned her.

For all his troubles, for all Sweeney's years of toil and murder and slaving under the devil's hot sun, he had gone on knowing Lucy had him in her heart. Whatever fate had dealt, it had been least fair on Benjamin and Lucy. He knew from the last time he had seen his wife alive that she had loved him. What could Mrs Lovett's life have been for those fifteen years, getting up every day to a gray, soulless London that promised her nothing? The man she loved would never love her. If he did return, he could have no joy in him. If he did return, there was no certainty he would ever seek her out. Why should he? Eleanor Lovett had only ever been his landlady.

It took a rare woman to keep a lock of a lost man's hair and cherish it all that time. They had more in common than he had once thought. Mrs Lovett may have brandished herself around as London's most wanton whore, but beneath the pouting and displays of seduction and general maddening loquaciousness, there had been a true, faithful soul. The baker had longed for him and his return for as long as he had longed for Lucy. The wonder was that neither of them had been driven mad by it.

When he really considered it, he remembered even less of Mrs Lovett from the old days than Lucy. Lucy came in brief, flashing scenes of light and yellow smiles and warm smells. He could not recall how the old Eleanor had looked. When he strained for memories of the baker, he could not see her face. Instead, he saw the ends of skirts, all sorts of skirts: lace, ruffled, satin, jacquard. The skirts would rustle up and down the stairs, across floorboards, down corridors. Occasionally she would bend, or trip, and Benjamin would be treated to the flash of Mrs Lovett's famous coloured stockings. It was one thing he remembered definitely about his landlady: her amusing bustle skirts.

At times, he'd had words with her about waking Johanna in the middle of the night with her friends and drink and card games in the parlour downstairs. It had bothered him then that most of Mrs Lovett's friends were men, and that her husband was nowhere in sight. She would wink at him, laugh and promise to keep the noise down if he would join them in a round of cards. He always declined. He had the faintest notion that she did it on purpose so that he would come down and speak with her.

_"Barker," she'd said one evening blurred amongst many other evenings, "your wife is upstairs waitin'. Wot you doin' down 'ere?" _

_She'd stumbled out of her chair, and placed one of her gloved hands against his chest. _

It was such an intimate moment, Sweeney cringed at the mere recollection of her laughter and the roars of her drunken fellows.

She was drunk; he'd let it go. To this day he couldn't remember what he'd said afterward to get her away.

"Mr Stowe."

Sweeney looked up. Mr Sedgewick was shaking his arm, eyes all concern.

"What?" He pulled his head away from his knees as if emerging from a cave.

"They need you to indentify her body."

_"Now?"_

Sweeney didn't tell him that he had lost the only person in all England, in all the _world_, who wanted him to live. Who would give her life without question to save his. He didn't know whether to feel sick, or angry, or even amused. It was only now when it was too late to do anything about it, he realised _that_ might be the true quality of love. He was not a person who knew much about love. He'd known it only briefly with Lucy. If their love had been so deep, why hadn't she clung to it? Found a way to survive? Mrs Lovett had done it, hadn't she?

Even when she had lost her Albert, she had struggled on – _for him_. And she had guided him all those months, put up with his brooding, travelled with him silently – born all storms and tempests, just for a life by the sea with only half his brain awake and not even expecting him to give her his heart. It was a marvel, a bloody wonder. Sweeney cursed himself for not seeing it before. She loved _all_ facets of his self.

It was only now that he longed for her to sit by him in the opposite couch with warm tea in her hand smiling at him with that silly clown smile of hers.

It was his fault it had come to this. He should not have said the things he'd said. He had condemned her for murdering Mrs Sedgewick. Now he seriously considered himself in error. Was it her fault Eleanor was so like him? Was it _wrong_ of her to do what came only naturally?

It still angered him – he lamented Mrs Sedgewick's death. But he had no right to force his morals on the baker.

He killed all and any. Women and children were not immune. He'd almost killed Toby, all those months ago. And more than one occasion he'd considered cutting Eleanor's throat in anger. The only people he held sacred – until _now_, were blonde angels and babes. Sweeney wondered if it was even Lucy he loved anymore, and not the image he had in his head of paradise, and of the sort of angels who might inhabit it.

"Now. Come on man." Sedgewick helped him to his feet and walked him down the garden path. He didn't mention Mrs Sedgewick, probably because he had the smallest of hopes she might still be alive.

"How much farther?" Sweeney said when they had walked back down the hilly main street. He hadn't told the boy yet. He was afraid they would fight. He knew Toby would blame him for her death, and he would lash out, and the boy would probably end up dead. And how would he live with himself? He didn't care much for the boy, but Mrs Lovett had, so therefore he _had_ to care for the boy.

"Not far."

"How did she die?"

Just as he asked that question, they came to a stop before the police station.

"Drowning," said Sedgewick uncomfortably. "Threw herself from the cliff and was dashed on the rocks, apparently. They had to wait for her body to wash ashore on the beach, before they could recover her –"

"Thank you." Sweeney held up a hand. He had heard enough. "Can they bring her outside?" He didn't relish meeting the police, even now.

Sedgewick looked at him strangely. "Of course not. Do you need me to come –"

"She was _my_ wife," he said defensively, and went into the station. It both pained him, and pleased him to know he'd called Eleanor his "wife" of his own free will, and not because she was begging and wheedling him to do so.

*** * ***

The body was blue and sliced in several places from the jagged edges of rocks.

Sweeney was not a sentimental man by any stretch of the imagination, but even this was too much to bear.

It was a beautiful body, and even in its decaying state her naked form affected him.

"Show me her face," he said hollowly, and the police officer removed the white cloth masking the woman.

The blue lips were parted. The hair was dark and tangled. The gaping eyes were brown.

But it was not her.

"That's not my wife," said Sweeney relieved. "That's not Mrs Stowe."

The officers looked at each other. "Are you certain sir?"

Sweeney nodded. "I know my own wife," he said firmly. She was still alive! All the weight of the dead sitting on his shoulders suddenly flew away.

"Some terrible mix up, then," realised the other officer.

After much confusion, it turned out there was more than one Mrs Stowe in Clovelly. This one was a widow who'd lost her husband six months ago to the sea.

All the apologising in the world did them no good. In older times, Sweeney might have been tempted to cut them up then and there for their mistake, but now the barber saw no point.

He let Sedgewick walk him back home, and tried not to imagine Mrs Sedgewick rotting under piles of dirt atop her face.

They did not speak another word to each other for the rest of the night.

Sedgewick waved him goodnight.

*** * ***

Sweeney entered the gloom of his unlit cottage.

He paced up and down the corridor for the next hour. He even went into her cupboard. Slid his hands across the surface of her dresses. He had no idea what he hoped to get from them, but he felt the fabric anyway. Ran it through his hands like water. Wondered if she had done the same before putting them on.

An hour later, he was pacing toward the entrance.

Someone's shadow poked through the slither of light under the door. He grasped his pockets.

His friends were at the ready. Nerves on edge. He yanked the door open, ready to attack the stranger.

She stood there. Not a ghost. Not a demon. Not a delusion.

Her eyes were incredibly stained and saggy. The skin looked sickly.

Her curls were down and the hair hung long and loose against her.

The barber's eyes travelled to her skirt. It was ripped all the way up the side.

He could see her striped stockings, and the flesh of her thigh above that.

He said nothing. It was too surreal.

"Hallo love," she said eventually.

*** * ***

**Hmmm I hope this is believable. But then Sweeney's emotions are just like his black kettle, I suppose He lets it all simmer, simmer, then KABAM. It all sort of erupts.**

**Now that I think about it... how random is it that he has a _kettle _boiling in his barber shop? That's what kitchens are for! O_O**


	29. Ascension

**A/N: Thanks for being patient ~ I've been busy lately so forgive the late update. And yes, the kettle scores a mention =)**

**lindzxhatter: I like your theory on the kettle. But there's no stove to boil anything?? Maybe the kettle whistling was in his head =DD**

** Weasly the emo kid: WOAH Please don't destroy me!! *Surrenders update timidly* Lol, I have put you through torture. Hopefully this will satisfy you. =)**

**AngelofDarkness1605: Well as for the word count I don't think it will, seeing as the story is going to end soon! He he I still can't get over the clown kettle/Sweeney comment. **

**iheartmoony7: Thanks for the kind review, yeah, death/mourning seems to be Sweeney's only driving force. Until now =D**

**LavenderShadow: Lol I love your review! 30 Chaps indeed. I thought you were aussie for a moment because you said "bloke" but then I checked and saw you're Canadian =D**

**F8WUZL8: LMAO at the Bunsen burner/Mad-scientist comment. There must be one, coz I don't see a stove. I tried to answer your request as best as possible with this chap =D**

**linalove: He he don't you just love cliffies??**

**Evanescent Wishes: 28 chapters lol it is appalling but when you think about it that's nearly a year - I imagine that's a short time in Sweeney years to adjust to new love.**

**Crystal-Fey: Lol you are welcome to pic favourites (Taming is my favourite too =D) You wrote it down? *Wow is immensely flattered* Thanks for your patience!**

**IheartJohnnyD: I almost thought she died too =D But there's no way I could write this many chaps and kill her off. Enjoy!**

**~Ascension~**

That night was the night she spoke fewer words in all the time he had known her.

He found himself speaking for them. "Are you hurt?"

The silver moon beamed atop her matted hair. She shook her head. When he held the door open, she moved quietly past him.

Her presence was enough to stir the air and brush strange smells and senses against his vest. She had brought the very wonders of the night inside, Sweeney mused, inhaling the unsual scent. A heady mix of flowers, perhaps, and the briny wind. Cinnamon from a bakehouse somewhere? (Although he knew no bake-houses open at such a late hour).

He shut the door, and the jarring sound brought his eyes winding round to her again – the weathered eyes and torn dress.

"How did it –" His gaze lingered briefly on the line of her leg gleaming through the fabric threads. "Did someone –"

She shook her head again. "Tore it trippin' down a lane," she said sheepishly, and even to Sweeney it did not sound convincing.

He sat her down by the kitchen table. He found himself offering her his spare jacket, setting a warm cup of tea on the table. It was so unlike him, the barber wondered if perhaps he was possessed by some good spirit. It was against his very philosophy – to _care_ for things. To mend them. It was not his way. And yet his hands moved of their own accord; stirring the tea, adding a few drops of gin to restore her health. All the while, she did not question him. Her eyes remained fixed on his darting hands, as if she were unable to believe they belonged to Sweeney Todd.

"Slow down love," she heard herself say at one point. "I won't drop dead." She laughed throatily. "Not yet."

He looked up at her. Smiled wanly. But he did not slow. There was a delicious irony in her words – after all, there were so many times when the baker had been close to death. She simply had not known it.

"Make yerself one," she suggested, fidgeting beneath his jacket. "Lord knows you need it Mr T. You is shakin' like a leaf."

He got up heavily from the table. Scraped the chair. He had salvaged the black kettle from London, and poured his own tea. "The whole village thought you were dead." He slammed the kettle down, and his eyes glittered despite the composure with which he gripped the kettle.

"Was it done in jest, Mrs – " he stopped himself short. _Eleanor._

It was on the tip of her tongue.

Everything wanted to spill out of her. Lucy being the beggar woman. Telling Lucy to poison herself, and being disappointed that the poison hadn't kill her, just addled her brain And now, running off into the night. Nellie had almost left for good. She'd almost tempted fate and gone to the artist's house. Dreamt of asking him to comfort her. And he would have obliged her, too. It would have been very easy – much easier than coming home to the cold and dark rooms, and Mr T's every stormy face. Just before the path to the artist's house, she had turned and walked back up the cemetery path back instead. She'd stood by the sea cliff and listened to the roar of the ocean, remembering the picnic in the sun when she'd persuaded the barber to place his lips upon her own.

That day was now a faded dream to her. The only real truth was Mr Todd before her now in the kitchen, looking all menacin' again, as if he knew very well that she hadn't ripped her skirt trippin' down a lane, but had torn it deliberately coming up the garden path, just so she might look more dramatic. But she knew nothing about being dead and the entire village searching for her. She decided to use the knowledge to her advantage.

"Wot do you care, Mr T? I'm just the baker." She got up without touching the tea, though every fibre in her body yearned for a rush of gin down her veins. The thought of Mr T starin' her down just then made her tired of him; tired of the thought of another five years of this, the thought of it all never ending like the same bad flamin' nightmare, when all she wanted was to dissolve that horrendous darkness that dimmed the beauty she knew lay within him, and paint some fire and light across the shadowed gloom of that harrowed face.

"Sweeney my love," she murmured. Her cheeks grew hot. She had said the words out loud. To his back, true, but she knew from the way his fingers gripped the chair that he had heard her.

"I thought Lucy was a Saint."

She froze now; possessed no more thoughts of going to her bed and drinking herself into oblivion with the spare bottle of gin under the bed. She was listening intensely to him, taking a few steps back. "Wot've you done with Sweeney?" she said suddenly, marvelling at the almost Ben-like tone in his voice.

"Let me talk, Eleanor" he snapped. "Or must I tape your mouth shut?"

That might have been necessary, Nellie realised, because it was the first time she had heard him use her name. He mouth hung open as if she were Mrs Mooney with a double chin – such was her surprise. Mrs Lovett came forward then, edging round the table. She wanted to ask him why he had called her Eleanor, why he had fixed the tea, why he hadn't let her fall down and die instead of bundling her in from the cold.

"I won't forgive her one thing, pet."

"Wot?" She dared herself to draw closer to him, but for once found that her will failed her.

A chair separated them. The thought of reaching out for those arms and have him throw her off in disgust was enough to make her keep her distance.

"I will always love Lucy," he went on. "She was my first love. But how can I forgive her for abandoning Johanna?"

Nellie didn't soothe him the way she would have liked. Instead she chose words. "Go easy, love. She was a child. You wos a child. How could any o' you be prepared ter come up against the wiles o' that snarky old Judge?"

He looked up suddenly, taking in her lucid eyes, the brow, the natural worry lines. He sensed no pretension there.

"_You_ were never a child." Sweeney's memory did not fool him. From that early memory he had of her playing cards in the bakehouse: a free-spirited, loud-mouthed woman barely a few years into her marriage – he knew intuitively. She was a thousand year old witch. And the spell was now cast too deep over and inside him to ever throw off the shackles that bound he and this unorthodox baker together.

"Yes, well, I wos never quite like your Lucy, wos I?" she said mournfully. Her eyes widened with the realisation of what she had said, waiting for the characteristic frown to cloud his face, and the maddened fire to come into his eyes and the hands reach for his razors and her throat. It did not happen. Nellie had built her life around predicting Mr Todd's behaviour, and now he completely threw her off guard.

"You are an_ odd_ woman," he said, looking down at her to find no swirling anger or regret or bewilderment bothering his vision of her.

"Do you like me for it?" she whispered, wanting him to voice the words she knew he would never say.

Predictably, he did not answer. He held only the thought of how barren his life had very nearly been without her.

She was hugging the ends of the chair now. The words were too much. His eyes loomed before her, the dark opals like twin planets absorbing her as if they encircled the dawning of a new sun.

"Don't be frightened, Eleanor."

"Wot makes you think that?"

"Because my dear, for once you are _silent._"

He was right. She had a hundred things she wished to say, but her mind had submitted entirely to the weight of his presence just across the chair, and she could not speak.

Her body trembled.

Sweeney did not smile. He stepped around the chair and slipped his hands over hers, interlacing their fingers.

She sensed another fire kindling inside the barber. One that had nothing to do with sadness or revenge. He was not smiling at her. His hands remained locked around her fingers, tracing their texture and lines and blemishes, as if it was no longer her skin that he held and moved around so softly – but his own.

"Tell me, Mr T."

At last she found her courage. Now that she was completely captured by him – her hands at least – Nellie could not let the moment slip by. Who knew when it would come again? Thoughts began to stir and flurry. What if this was another game? Her hands might be _Lucy's_ hands to him, for all she knew. She untangled her fingers from his, and met his eyes guardedly.

He knew that look.

It was Eleanor's brain ticking over intently, picking over all the intricacies of who and what and where and why. "Don't," he warned her, and before she could think of turning from him and leaving again, he took her shoulders, and drew her face against his. He felt her cheek next to his, and her flesh moulded so gently on his, he began to wonder why he had spent all his energy finding ways and means to repel her. She let him rest his cheek, but that was all. He could sense her holding back. Her body was stiff and tense – he understood her fear implicitly.

"My love," he spoke into her ear, and felt his hands betray him. They shook, as he drew her into his battered form. With all the courage he could muster, he banished the sight of yellow hair and old laughter from his head. _She_ would always be there, of course, but he did not want her now. Not in this hour. He brushed his lips against the baker's cheek, and drew back to contemplate her face. "Or Nellie, if you prefer," he said, knowing she was fond of the nickname. He waited for her reply.

"Wotever you like, Mr T," she said eventually. She had been waiting him out, waiting to see if that expression would change. All his walls were down, and it did not appear to be Lucy related this time. After all the years of longing and dreaming, it was now possible. And it made her sick with misery and mirth and a dozen other emotions drawn up from long, long ago. It was almost _too _much. Now that he was staring at her with those liquid eyes, she did not think to question _where_ this sudden tempest had blown from. She didn't care. Coming to the seaside with Mr T's empty heart had almost deadened her – all that_ too much feeling_ inside her.

"Are you certain?" He lifted her chin, and Nellie was tempted to laugh; the sudden well of joy bubbled up within her, and she was nodding now, draping her head against him as if they had never been anything else but one person holding each other at some ridiculous hour, all bird-nest haired and bedraggled.

"Yes," she said, knowing that Mr T didn't give a toss about names.

She leaned forward.

The first test.

The barber did not flinch, or remain staring at in mute incomprehension. His eyes flickered closed, inviting Nellie to smooth his eyelids and the buds of his thin lips with the tips of her fingers. He did not resist. When she brought herself against the still mouth, she felt her own eyes fluttering shut against her will. He returned her kiss, so faintly that at first it was not even a kiss. But she pretended to pull away, as if the experience had overcome her.

It was all Sweeney needed. He pulled her hands toward his chest tightly, and she sensed the first stirrings of passion within him.

"Are you certain?" he repeated, his voice closer to her mouth than before. He could see so closely into her eyes now that they stood a fraction apart, now that every movement and motion mirrored his own.

"Can't you tell, you bleedin' fool?" she challenged.

"I am slow pupil, pet," he murmured.

"That you are love," she said with a cheeky laugh.

There was no fear, because he had erased fear from himself.

She drew herself away from him, covering her mouth with a shaking hand to hide her grin.

The chair was pushed in against the table, the baker's hair and skirts smoothed down.

He watched her head down the corridors and for the stairs. It was such an ordinary action.

He did not call after her, because she was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.

She smiled quietly at him, and Sweeney realised then that when it came to the baker, a smile could indeed be quiet.

He waited for her to turn her back to him. He placed his hand gently against the small of her back.

They climbed the stairs together, for once not needing to speak each other's name: to call or shout or rail at his cruelty, his insensitivities, her nagging, her boisterousness.

They were not Mr or Mrs Stowe. Barker. Benjamin. Sweeney. Mr Todd. Mr T. Eleanor. Mrs Lovett. Nellie.

There was no need for names or pretensions that night.

*** * ***

**One more chapter until the end, my friends!**


	30. We'll Grow Old

**A/N: ****We've come to the end of their journey. I'm sad to see it go, but there's no denying it: Sweeney and Mrs Lovett have climbed their mountain, and I think we should leave them alone now and let them enjoy the rest of their happiness. To the following reviewers: thanks for your kind reviews. You've inspired me to keep this story going.**

**Evanescent Wishes: I know the rolling-around-on-the-floor-screaming-feeling. I feel that right now - it feels like a dream that they aren't ****_fighting _for once. I agree: Sweenett forever =DD**

**lindzxhatter: Lindzzz, well you know I couldn't have pulled it together without you. Every time I opened my inbox and got another review I was grinning ear-to-ear. I'll miss them!**

**Crystal-Fey: Ili: it's weird, isn't it, but I feel exactly the same thing: Sweeney isn't aggressive with it anymore so it's sort of playful-sweet, shutting her up =D**

**linalove: Thanks for all your lovely reviews, I'm sad too but all good things come to an end. Now I actually have time to review the rest of your epic fics =D**

**SibellaJane: I'm glad you found it realistic. I pondered so long over what to do but smut really isn't my thing - at least, I just can't do it. This was your first story? Wow. =)**

**F8WUZL8: Fangirl squeal back! It really _is_ a breakthrough. I can't thank you enough for all your honesty/wonderful suggestions. You're a sweenett writer's dream =D**

**Super Snuffles: Yes, just one more chapter. And that's all there is, there isn't anymore =)**

**LavenderShadow: We aussies/canadians have something in common: bacon, syrup - well, honey more than syrup, and normal-ish accents (we don't all sound like bush-turkeys!) Thank you so much for your funny reviews. I always smile when I read them.**

** Weasly the emo kid: Well? Do I get to live? Will I survive being made into a pie and fed to Lord Voldie? I'm stealing one of your last review lines for this chap, so I am eternally indebted.**

**Sweet Lunacy: It means a lot that you've taken the time to review. I'm glad you like it!**

**lilaclila-sweeney-johnny: Lilaclila - four days! Wow =O Sorry this last chap took so long! (I'll miss it too). As for the stove in the shop: you're very observant. I'm going to have to re-watch it and see.**

**AngelofDarkness1605: I'm not aiming to get it to 100 + words anymore. I feel they've reached that point of both realising they are kindred spirits, and that's when the author knows she must hang up her hat. I think these two would hate me if I were to write twenty more plus chapters of them in their old age: Sweeney gets arthritis, a walking cane and back problems, and every now and then gets the urge for a meat pie, while Mrs Lovett builds up a giant china plate collection, badgers him with tea parties every weekend with random chums she picks up at fairs and school fetes (Toby decides he wants to be a policeman, and thrash the life out of any criminals-in-the-making). =DDD**

**~We'll Grow Old~**

"Mr T's gone!"

"Get here! Don't you lie to me boy!"

Mrs Lovett stumbled down the attic still half-dressed in her white blouse and bloomers. She had the fever in her eyes. It was the first time Toby had seen her with her curly hair completely unravelled. She looked like a dark Rapunzel but nothin' so sweet when she had him by the shoulders shakin' him senseless.

"I ain't! It's the damn bleedin' truth," he cursed back. "An' Im glad, you 'ear me mum? I'm sick o' sleepin' in the bath tub every night on account o' you an' 'is fightin'!"

She ran to the end of the corridor with a blush creeping up her cheeks. _Where wos 'e? Where'd 'e gone?_

"Don't bother goin' out, Toby called. "All the stuffs gone too."

She went out anyway, bursting onto the lawn like a bird anxious to eat the early worm. Her arms flailed and she spun round in all directions, expecting to see him coming up the lane.

"Where'd that flamin' devil get to," she howled, not caring if the neighbours heard. "It can't be all a dream. He wos there, an' I wos there, an'…an'…"

She recalled his hands cupping her waist in the darkness, tilting her neck back against his lips, his rough working fingers pressed into her back. The mere thought of it made her shiver, and she no longer felt the sun on her face. She was sliding back into the world of Sweeney Todd. And now she'd woken to the blaring sunshine and perfect sky and Toby telling her it was all a dream, a delusion. And Mr T was nowhere to be found.

_I__'m not a weak woman_, she promised herself, taking deep breaths and forcing herself to look up at the calm blue heaven.

It was not enough. Her heaven was with him. Without his deranged company to compliment hers, she was just another sad middle aged woman the world would not miss and could do comfortably well without. He had not said much to her last night, but_ what_he had said was enough. He didn't make speeches or promises. He didn't tell her Lucy was erased from his heart. But _what_ he had said.

_"I never knew…I need you,"_ he'd said in the darkness, before she'd unveiled herself to him.

It was the deepest confession he'd ever made to her, and likely any woman since Lucy. Did he regret it now the morning light washed away the deep cavern of night? Did he wish he could undo what they'd done? Had he done the typically Sweeney recourse of action, and fled?

The heat of the summer sun hit the garden quite strongly. This, and the shock of finding him gone was enough to make an eminently practical woman stripped raw. She no longer knew anything anymore: the glare of the sun in her eyes was her only surety. Nellie spent five minutes or more staring up at it, until her efforts produced the desired effect: the baker fainted clean away on the lawn.

*** * ***

He came through the back door with his arms bearing brown paper packages.

"Where is she?"

Toby was sitting glumly cross-legged in the corridor with the near-empty bottle of gin. He glared at Sweeney on sight. "Come to break 'er heart again?" he accused.

"I doubt it," Sweeney said softly, feeling his whole body tingle with an inner glow that no one else could know or explain. The air was increasingly light, the sky blue, and while he disliked both things, the thought of welcoming Eleanor in the darkness of another night, and many nights to come, had his heart intent on being as cheerful as he could muster despite the weather.

Until he saw her lying stone-cold on the lawn. The packages fell from his arms, as if showers of blood.

There was only one thing for it.

He rushed into the kitchen, found the glass vase with the week old flower water, and rushed outside again, dumping the contents over her pale face.

His shadow fell over her, and she no longer felt the ache of the sun. "I thought you'd left us," was the first thing she said upon waking.

He helped her to her feet. "No, my pet. The boy isn't my first pick of child, yet_ you_…"

She looked past him, and finally saw the packages strewn across the threshold, filled with food and other supplies. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were asleep." He shrugged. "It wasn't necessary to wake you."

"Toby said you left."

"The boy is a peanut," Sweeney said with a frown. He took her down the back path, so that they might talk in private on the veranda.

"We can't stay here," she realised, hugging her bloomer legs as if she were a toddler shielding herself from the big bright world.

"Yes," he said, casting his eyes toward the fence that separated them from Sedgewick's house.

"He'll never know," Mrs Lovett said, thinking sadly of the corpse buried under the house. There were many things she wished could be undone – _except_ for Lucy dyin', o' course.

"Possibly," the barber said. "But I can't live here knowing that. Can you?"

She looked him full in the face this time.

They were the same people they were last night. But they were not. Whether it was Clovelly, or the death of Mrs Sedgewick or a miracle – a change had come over Sweeney Todd.

"No love," she replied, thinking of all the packing she had to do. She got up to go inside. Again, she felt his hand on the small of her back.

*** * ***

_~Two weeks later~_

It was Sunday on a beach in the South of England somewhere, and nobody had died yet.

They walked arm in arm together along the boardwalk lined with black lamp-posts.

The sun had fused the clouds and half-empty skyline to give them a spectacular gold and black horizon. The hills were black, and the sky glowed deeply golden.

Toby was playing skittles with some boys on the beach. He'd grown used to the fact that Mr T was going to be around, and didn't shoot him daggers every time he walked in the door.

Nellie sighed. There was nothing more she could ask of the world. She never wanted to go back to London, and she never wanted to lose Mr T's smile. He reminded her of a rare animal; you could only catch him doing it when he thought you wasn't looking. Like now. "Mr T, wot you smilin' about?"

He gripped her arm tighter, and remained silent for a while. He was getting to know a few of the things that set her mind at ease, or unsettled her. His glove hand went to stroke the back of her neck briefly, and it pleased him that his new wife had not lost the childish ability to blush, and yet somehow look very knowing all at once.

A seagull flapped towards them, squawking for a feed. Before either of them could speak, they both bent instinctively and reached for the same stone on the ground.

"Great minds think alike," she grinned, snatching the stone away from him. Sweeney settled for kicking the bird instead. They watched as the terrorized bird limped away.

Their smiles mirrored each other, and they both found the gold sky a miracle neither of them had expected.

"Where should we go next, my love?"

"Anywhere the wind takes us, Eleanor."

"Nellie, love, heaven's sake, no one calls me Eleanor."

"Ah, but they do, Eleanor," Sweeney smiled stubbornly, looking out to sea.

She caught the tail end of the smile. "Mrs Eleanor Todd then," Nellie finished. She gripped his arm again, trailing her fingers across the fabric of the glove. "Jus' think Mr T, we'll grow old together, an' stone seagulls daily by the sea. Run a little gem shop. 'ave a girl, or a boy, or twins, an' we'll eat chives an' chips an' Turkish delight all day long, an' we'll put up lavender pot plants outside to make them tourists green wif envy, an' we can go bathin' in the sea an' you'll even eat your breakfast with jam on toast…" she was near breathless at the end of her speech.

He turned to gaze down at her, knowing he could make her nervous now in a way very different from his old fury. For some reason, he didn't want to shut her up this time.

"My Nellie," he said, trying out the words on his lips.

A few weeks ago, he never would have imagined it possible. Sweeney Todd gave in to love.

**~*~*~*~*~*~**

_~The End~_

**Thank you all for being the funniest, most touching, supportive readers I could ask for. It's been a pleasure journeying this story with you!**

***I have two questions that would be great if you answered in your review:**

**1. Do you think the Sweeney Todd fandom is alive/dead/has the potential to grow?**

**2. Would you like to see further "what-if" epic fics written, or should this author leave it with Taming?**

**Your honesty is much appreciated.**

**Adieu!**


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